Wolves of the North
by SsgtC
Summary: Jon is Legitimized by King Robb, but never learned of it. What if he had? Here, Jon gets the letter from his brother naming him Jon Stark and his Heir. But not until Robb has already died. Long Live the King
1. Wolves of the North-1

This is an idea I've been kicking around for a little while working on other projects. It's my first ASOIAF fic so feedback is greatly appreciated. I'm going to attempt to keep this to book cannon, but I haven't read them in quite a long time, so bits and pieces of show cannon may slip in. However, if it does happen and it causes a conflict, book cannon will always take precedence (unless otherwise specified) and edits will be made as needed.

The timeline begins immediately before the Red Wedding when Robb decides to legitimize Jon and name him his heir. He's just not as quiet about it as in cannon. Enjoy!

PS: This is at least in part a Starkwank. I'm going to try to keep it from going full on wank, but it's going to happen at least in part.

**Robb I**

The last of his Lords had signed his decree and Robb affixed the Seal of Winter to the document. It was done. His will was law now. His mother could protest it all she wanted. But Bran and Rickon were dead. Sansa was married to the Imp. And Arya? No one had seen Arya since the day his father had been arrested. And a nine year old girl in King's Landing had about as much of a chance of surviving as a mouse had after it had been bitten by a viper.

Despite the pleas of his mother, Jon Snow was now Jon Stark and his heir. The document that had been signed and sealed before him proclaimed it for all to see. He planned to present it to Jon personally after capturing Moat Cailin from the Ironborn and marching his army back through the North, liberating it as they went. The look on Jon's face was sure to be worth the trip to The Wall.

Though Jon was still a Man of the Night's Watch, this decree would handle that as well. Not only was Jon hereby legitimized by Royal Decree, he was released from his vows to the Night's Watch to fulfill his duty to his family. His sworn brothers may not like it, but as King in the North, he did have the authority to do that. And at any rate, he'd repay them for the loss of Jon a hundred times over. Every Ironborn that they captured alive would be given a choice: to lose his head, or join the Watch. Lord Commander Mormont was sure to appreciate the extra men.

But something in the back of his head was telling him not to wait. At times, he had the strangest feelings and dreams. Usually something to do with Grey Wind. But this was different. In the recesses of his mind, he could hear a voice saying, "Don't wait. Tell him now." If he had learned anything since leading the Northern host south and being declared King in the North, it was to listen to that voice.

As his Lords began filtering out of his tent, Robb spoke, "Lady Mormont, Lord Umber. Stay behind please."

Upon hearing both their names, Maege Mormont and Greatjon Umber both stop and turn towards their King. "Your Grace?" they said in unison.

"This document, Jon's legitimization. I dare not wait to make it known that Jon is my legal heir. Originally, I planned to tell Jon myself when we marched back North. But I don't think I can wait. So. I want Dacey and Smalljon to carry this letter to the Wall for me. I know that they're going to protest at being gone from my side. But I also know that of all the people in my camp, I can trust your Houses and those two more than any others. It'll go easier if I have your support with them."

Glancing at the Greatjon, Robb though it best to revise his words, "Well, at the least we'll be able to shout them down easier."

Roaring with laughter, Greatjon Umber slapped Robb on the back and told him, "Don't you worry, Your Grace. My son may have a head harder than the Iron Islands, but he'll do what he's told. Come on Maege! Lets go get our children so they can be on their way."

As his two bannermen made their way out of his tent, Robb poured himself a flagon of ale and drank down half of it in a single gulp before beginning to pace. This was the right decision, he was sure of it. Suddenly, he wished that he'd let Jeyne come with him to the Twins. He missed her terribly. He knew it was better for her to remain in Riverrun, Walder Frey was sure to be prickly as it was. But just for a moment he wanted to be selfish and have his Queen by his side.

Dropping into his camp chair, he picked up his ale and drank deeply from it again. Hearing the booming voice of the Greatjon yelling at his son that he would "bloody well do what his King commands," Robb couldn't help but chuckle. Trust the Greatjon not to bother standing on ceremony and to just get it out right away. As Smalljon and Dacey entered the tent followed by Maege and the Greatjon, Robb rose to speak with them.

"I'm guessing you know what I want you to do," he asked?

Speaking for both of them, Smalljon said, "Aye, Your Grace. And I don't like it. My place is by your side. Not ridding off over a thousand fucking miles from you."

Nodding fiercely, Dacey added, "Your Grace, it's a bad idea. I don't trust the Freys. Not one fucking bit. We should be with you."

"Aye, you should be. But that's not where I need you right now. Right now, I need you ridding hard for Castle Black. I want you both to head to Maidenpool, hire a ship and sail to Eastwatch. Then ride for Castle Black." Handing the sealed document to Smalljon, Robb continued, "Give this to my brother and Lord Commander Mormont. By the time you reach Castle Black, we'll have Moat Cailin under siege and possibly have already taken it. If you don't hear from me, take Jon to Last Hearth. I'll send word there once Moat Cailin falls. I trust the two of you more than anyone else in this world. Swear to me that you'll deliver this to Jon."

Robb could tell by the looks on their faces that they still didn't like it. But that they weren't going to keep fighting him on it. Not once they realized how strongly he felt about it. Both Smalljon and Dacey dropped to a knee and swore by the Old Gods that they would deliver the document to Jon at Castle Black. Thanking them, both Mormonts and Umbers made their way out of his tent. Robb meanwhile had to prepare to deal with Walder Fucking Frey.


	2. Wolves of the North-2

**Dacey I**

Tears were streaming down her face. And she hated herself for it. She was angry, no she was murderous in her rage, and she was grief stricken. Robb had not just been her King, but her friend as well. The Smalljon had howled in rage when they had heard the news. The look on his face, well, "murderous" would be considered an improvement. Already the tale was spreading far and wide. Walder fucking Frey had broken Guest Right and murdered Robb and Catelyn Stark and everyone who came with them. Everyone except Roose Bolton that is. And it didn't take a genius to figure out why Roose was still alive.

All she knew was, they were still a days hard ride from Maidenpool, and there were sure to be some of those Bolton and Frey fuckers hot on their trail. They had been riding under a Stark Banner, but as soon as they heard word of what happened at the Twins, they had hurriedly furled it and packed it away. They couldn't risk drawing attention to themselves and being taken now. Not that either of them planned to let themselves be taken alive. That agreement hadn't even needed words. She had looked at the Smalljon with a hard glint in her eye and he had given her the smallest of nods and it was agreed. If they were caught, they were going to kill every last worthless shit of an oathbreaker they could before falling themselves.

As they pounded down the road, Dacey realized that everything had changed now. Robb was gone. Lady Stark was gone. Lord Stark was gone. Lady Sansa was a hostage of the Lannisters. Lady Arya hadn't been seen or heard from in over a year. Lords Brann and Rickon were dead, burned by that turncloak Theon. All that was left of House Stark was a bastard in the Night's Watch. No matter. That bastard was King in the North now. And she would make sure he lived. They would take their vengeance on those bastards that murdered their King and kin. If it was the last thing she ever did, she'd make sure every last Bolton and Frey died. This she swore by the Old Gods.

And Theon. That treacherous turncloak bastard. Whatever tortures the Gods could think up wouldn't be enough for him. If she ever caught up to him, she fully intended to take her time on that one. A piece here. A piece there. Until there wasn't anything left of the shit. By the time this war was over, those bastard Ironborn would learn just how hard and cruel the North could be. They would savage the Iron Islands till the seas around them ran red with blood. They would break the Ironborn so thoroughly that they would shake in fear at the very mention of the North. This too she swore by the Old Gods.

The miles continued to pass, both she and the Smalljon pushing their horses hard. She hated to do it, as she knew they were ruining the horses at the pace they were moving, but it couldn't be helped. They either moved fast, or they died. And the letter they carried had to make it to Jon. Find Jon, give him the letter, then take back their home. That was all she cared about. That and slaughtering every last person who had a hand in killing Robb.

By that evening, as they reached Maidenpool, their horses on the verge of collapse, she and the Smalljon headed straight for the docks. They needed a ship and they needed it fast. Entering a tavern by the dock, they carefully looked around, trying to find the sort of Captain who would do what was asked and would keep his mouth shut about it afterwards. For the right price. An hour later, they were on a fast ship heading North.

As their ship slipped down the Bay of Crabs, she heard Smalljon curse loudly and fluently. Coming over the hill, was a party flying Frey banners. And unless she was badly mistaken, the man leading the party was Black Walder, Walder Frey's bastard son. Of all the Freys, other than Old Walder himself, Black Walder was the one who's throat she wanted to slit the most. He was a vile, disgusting man who richly deserved death. One day, she promised herself. One day Black Walder, I will bury my knife in your throat and let your blood flow across my hands. And on that day, I will look down on you, and smile. Turning her back to the party of Freys, she crossed her arms and settled in for the voyage North.

_

**Wyman I**

The Lord of White Harbor gazed over his Great Hall in the New Castle. His family stood on both sides of the hall, surrounding him. Along the sides were arrayed the various Houses that had answered his call to muster the remaining strength of the North to throw the Ironborn scum back into the sea where they belonged. Though he could see all of this, it seemed that everywhere he looked, everything was tinted red. A raven had arrived just a few days previously, informing him that his son Wendel, was dead.

The Raven scroll had been vague on details as all such scrolls were, but this one was more vague than most. Deliberately so, he suspected. The Red Wedding the smallfolk were calling it. Like all such things, the rumors flew far faster than even the swiftest raven. And the rumors spoke of betrayal and murder. The Gods damned Freys had betrayed their King, violated Guest Right and engaged in an orgy of violence and depravity the likes of which hadn't been seen in Westeros in centuries.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the fucking Boltons had helped them! That fucking traitor Roose Bolton had broken his oaths to his King and shoved a knife in his heart. And then that fucking cunt Tywin Lannister rewards the oathbreaker by naming him Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Those bastards would pay for what they did. One day. Unfortunately that day was not today.

Wyman had a problem. He had amassed a sizeable force in White Harbor. The plan had been to move his force up the White Knife, secure Winterfell then move into the Wolfswood toward Deepwood Motte, freeing it from the Ironborn as they went. Meanwhile King Robb's forces would take Moat Cailin and move through the Barrowlands and The Rills, pushing the Ironborn back into the sea as they advanced. That plan was no longer viable. Nor was his initial impulse to take his men south and sack The Twins. His heir Wylis was being held captive by the Lannisters. Any move south would be guaranteed to result in Wylis' death.

But perhaps, just perhaps, a third option had opened up to him. A ship had just docked and aboard it were Smalljon Umber and Dacey Mormont. They had sent a runner to the castle begging an urgent audience with him. Being very interested to hear what they had to say, he agreed at once. Smalljon and Dacey had been two of King Robb's personal guards and he had assumed them dead at The Twins. The fact that they were here was curious. Very curious indeed. What peaked his interest even more was that the ship they sailed on had flown no banners. Odd considering the status of their Houses in general and their personal service to House Stark.

As Wyman sat and waited for his guests to arrive, his rage cooled slightly. Though he still thirsted for vengeance, his vision was no longer tinted red. For that he was thankful. He needed his wits about him. The years had not been kind to him physically. Too many pies, he thought ruefully. He could no longer sit a horse or swing a sword. He was left with only his wits to fight his battles. At least the pies hadn't dulled his mind. His mind was as sharp and strong as ever.

When the Smalljon and Dacey entered his Hall, he could plainly see the rage and the sorrow on their faces. He could also see that their escort contained men in Stark colors. Interesting. Some assignment from King Robb immediately before his betrayal? Or simply men gathered together as they fled death? He would be willing to place his considerable wealth on the former. Smalljon and Dacey loved Robb too much to have ever abandoned him when he was in peril. Still, he had been wrong before and could be again. The wise course to follow was to be cautious until the situation became clearer. And knowing the Umber's reputation for not beating around the bush, he wagered that would be happening the moment Smalljon opened his mouth.

Fifteen minutes later, he was right. The situation was much clearer. And muddier than ever. Jon Snow, wait, Jon _Stark_ was now King in the North. But he didn't know it. And once he did learn he'd been named his brother's heir, how would he react? What would he do? More importantly, what would the other Lords of the North do? The Boltons were a foregone conclusion. They would refuse to bend the knee. House Dustin was all but certain to back the Boltons, Lady Barbrey had little love for the Starks. The Ryswells too were likely to declare for House Bolton, the ambitious cunts.

On the other side of the ledger, Houses Umber, Reed and Mormont would back House Stark unconditionally. His own House too would back the Starks. Some may call it foolish for him to declare so quickly for House Stark, but The North remembers. And House Manderly owed not only it's prosperity, but it's very survival, to House Stark. When looked at in that light, there really was no other option. Honor demanded that he back his King to the hilt.

Of the remaining major Houses, that left the Karstarks, the Cerwyns, the Tallharts, the Glovers and the Flints as the Houses that could go either way. All had members of their families being held hostage by either the Lannisters or the Greyjoys. Of those houses, only the Cerwyns and the Karstarks hadn't fallen to the Ironborn. Of those that had, whoever helped them free their lands and retake their castles was likely to win their loyalty. Though if he was being honest with himself, he did have a few other ideas that could sweeten the pot for one or two of those Houses.

That left the Cerwyns and the Karstarks. With the proper assurances from King Jon and from the other Houses, House Cerwyn _should_ declare for House Stark. He'd have to give more thought to that one. The Karstarks though would be a problem. King Robb had executed their Lord. And they were not likely to forget that. Perhaps if they could negotiate for Harion's release, and...

With a start, Wyman realized that he had been ruminating on what needed to be done for some minutes now. Clearing his throat loudly, he said, "Apologies. It's nearly time for the noon meal and I had begun to daydream about lamprey pie. Lord Jon, Lady Dacey. Would you be so kind as to join me in my solar? I believe there is much to discuss."

Those who were standing or sitting near Wyman just then would later go on to swear that, just for an instant, they saw a flash of the harder man he used to be. When pressed, they would just say that it was something about his eyes just then. And that they were certainly glad that they had never had to face Lord Manderly when he was in his prime.


	3. Wolves of the North-3

**Melisandre I**

She stared into the flames.

"Speak to me R'hllor. Lord of Light, show me the way," she muttered softly.

The pirate's screams as the flames ate away at his flesh had finally subsided a few minutes before. And still she waited for her Lord to speak to her. As she peered intently into the flames, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh filling her nostrils, the flames appeared to dance before her eyes. She stared deeply into the flames, watching the vision that R'hllor had sent her. A pack of wolves stood clustered before a gate, a white wall behind them. One wolf was black as night and as wild as the sea in a storm. One was grey and dainty but with a core of iron. One was silver and ancient with a wise look in it's eyes. Another was lithe and powerful and seemed to slip in and out of the shadows with a practiced ease. All that she saw in a glance. It was the last wolf that drew her in.

Massive and powerful, it was white as new fallen snow. It moved on silent paws, its jaws uttering not a sound, despite it's lips pulled back in a snarl, its teeth on display for all to see. The silence of the wolf making it all the more menacing. As she watched, the white wolf reared up on its hind legs, standing as tall as a man. And then it turned its head and looked directly at her. Its eyes, as red as burning coals, seemed to bore straight into her. And then the white wolf did make a sound. A single huff, barely audible to her. But the wolves heard. And the wolves turned and began to circle around her. Each wolf growling deep within it's chest, the individual growls combining until they made but a single sound. The last thing she saw was the wolves lunging at her, faster than any viper, jaws open and ready to tear into her flesh.

With an explosion of sparks, the vision from R'hllor dissolved. There was little that she saw in the flames that could shake Melisandre. Even visions of her own death would not perturb her. When it was time for R'hllor to end her service and call her to him, she would willingly answer his summons. This vision though did disturb her. It was far different from what she had seen before. She had seen the King fighting below The Wall, a great victory. She saw him march on Winterfell. But never had she seen a pack of wolves.

As Melisandre returned to her quarters from the beach at Dragonstone, she pondered what the vision meant. The wolves she was certain meant the Starks with their direwolf banners. But Robb Stark was dead. His brothers were dead. One of his sisters was missing or dead, the other was a hostage in King's Landing. Certainly nowhere near The Wall, which she was sure is what she saw rising behind the wolves. Ahhhh, Robb Stark's _other_ brother. Jon _Snow_. Jon Snow was a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. That would explain why the vision was of The Wall. Jon Snow was the white wolf. Could this vision perhaps mean that his half siblings were still alive and would one day reunite with him in the North?

But Jon Snow was a bastard. Why was he the leader of the pack? The answer came to her as she sat before the brazier in her quarters. With Brandon and Rickon Stark believed dead, Robb Stark's heir was his sister Sansa. Who had been forcibly married to a Lannister. Robb would be desperate to prevent the Lannisters from ever having a claim on Winterfell. He would have named his brother as his heir. A white wolf leading the pack indeed. Her King needed to know this.

Rising from her seat, Melisandre made her way through the halls and corridors of Dragonstone to the King's chambers. Despite the guard posted at the door, Melisandre eased open the door and slipped inside without even a knock, the only person on Dragonstone to have that privilege. Not even the King's wife could enter his chambers unbidden. The fact that she alone out of all the hundreds in the castle was allowed this boon was a display of her true power and influence.

Melisandre took in the King's chambers with a glance to ensure they were alone. But her gaze lingered on Stannis Baratheon. Stannis was a tall, powerfully built man. The true heir to the Iron Throne and Azor Ahai reborn. He was the man to lead them through the Long Night in the battle against the Great Other. As she walked towards where the King stood, Stannis didn't even acknowledge her presence in the room. Instead he remained motionless, standing by the fire, one hand on the hearth, supporting some of his weight as he stared into the fire, lost in thought.

Reaching the King, she gently touched his shoulder and Stannis finally turned his head to look at her. Looking him in the eye, she said, "My King. I bring news. A false King rises to oppose you."

Stannis turned back to stare into the flames and uttered a single word, "Who?"

"Jon Snow, my King. I have seen it in the flames."

"Jon Snow is a bastard. He has no claim to the North."

"He has the blood of Eddard Stark in his veins, my King. That will be enough for many in the North."

"Use another leech then. The Lord of Light has killed two of my enemies already. What's one more?"

"R'hllor has already provided his proof to you, my King. He will not do so again unless you commit fully to him. More is required."

"Edric..."

"He has King's blood. Already the false kings Robb Stark and Balon Greyjoy are dead. You have seen the power his blood holds. Just a sample and your enemies fall before you."

A long silence fell between, broken only by the sound of Stannis grinding his teeth as he mulled over the implications of what she wished him to do. Finally Stannis told her in a low voice and without turning from the fire, "Make the preparations."

Nodding her head, Melisandre left the King's chambers. She had to prepare not only the pyre, but the boy as well. Behind her, Ser Davos Seaworth knocked and entered the King's chamber. Unseen by her, he left but scant minutes later, his skin white as new fallen snow. On his face played a range of emotions. Chief amongst them anger, fear, concern and finally, resolve. For Melisandre, she had no need to see those things. The flames had already shown her how Ser Davos would react. Her faith in the Lord allowed her to stay above the petty spying and skullduggery of those around her. R'hllor would always show her the truth of matters.

She would prepare the pyre for young Edric this night. And early the next morning, she would spend time with Robert's bastard. Like a sheep led to the slaughter, he would never see the blade coming until it was far too late to stop it. It was a small mercy, but it was a mercy. The lad would not be tortured by thoughts of what awaited him. His blood would be all the more powerful because of it.

_

**Marlon I**

They had been lucky so far. The Seven Who Are One had blessed their passaged up the White Knife and hidden them from the preying eyes of the Bolton and Ironborn scouts. That fucking traitor Roose Bolton's bastard son held the Dreadfort and he daily sent messages to his cousin demanding the surrender of Hornwood and the submission of House Manderly to the Boltons. Marlon wanted nothing more than to gut the little cunt where he stood. But Wyman was very clear. The mission they were on was not one of conquest. Their mission was far more vital. They were charged with bringing the King to White Harbor so they could properly plan the recapture of the North, the extermination of the fucking Boltons and the breaking of the Lannisters.

Silence, vigilance and lethality were his watchwords. Already they had killed several Ironborn scouts that had come just a little too close to their camp. The Ironborn may be great pirates and rapers, but they were shite at moving through the woods. Each and every one of his Northmen were worth ten of the fuckers. And not one of the Ironborn had uttered a sound as he died, their blood spilled by the blade of a Northerner.

Not that it would have mattered anyway. Between the men his cousin had given him and the men that the Smalljon and Dacey had brought, they had nearly one hundred and fifty men. More than enough to deal with any fucking cunt who got in their way. And no one would get in their way. No one would be allowed to get in their way.

Glancing across the small boat, the moonlight just enough to see by, Marlon saw the Smalljon standing like a statue, arms folded across his massive chest, staring off into the woods along the riverbank. There was a dangerous man. But he couldn't decide who he was more dangerous too at the moment, his enemies or himself? The boat was small enough and the Smalljon loud enough that he had overheard snatches of the conversation between Smalljon and Dacey. The man was beating himself up inside for not being by Robb's side when Robb was killed at The Twins. So far, all of Dacey's attempts to reason with the man had been met with curt refusals and stony silences. And a quiet Umber was a sight to scare any man. For a family known for their boisterousness, his eerie calm and quiet was disconcerting to say the least. He honestly feared that if they were called into battle, Smalljon would go berserk and throw himself into the fight with reckless abandon and get himself killed.

Sighing softly, Marlon resigned himself to the fact that Smalljon's fate was entirely up to him and that nothing he could say or do would change that fact. Idly, he did wonder whether the Greatjon was still alive or not and whether the Smalljon was still the heir or if he was the Lord of Last Hearth now. Knowing his father's reputation, he wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had died fighting. And likely taking twenty men out along with him. That would be like the Greatjon, to go down fighting. Or drinking come to think of it. The man had a thirst on him and a nearly unmatched ability to drink more wine and ale than any three other men combined. A fact that he had proven on several occasions.

As dawn approached, his men nosed the handful of small boats they were traveling in into shore near a stream that offered some concealment. It twisted his gut and filled his mouth with bile to have to sulk about their own lands like some Gods begotten poacher and move only at night. But Wyman was insistent. Stealth was more vital than valor. He had plans to put in motion. Plans that required keeping the Ironborn, the Lannisters and that rigid asshole Stannis in the dark. So they bellied up during the day, moved only at night and slit the throat of anyone they came across. All in all, it was an efficient arrangement.

Days later, as they landed on the far shore of the Long Lake, Marlon found himself eternally grateful of their efficient arrangement. That cunt Ramsey Snow had led a scouting party within five hundred yards of their camp the day before. He still wasn't sure if they had actually been seen or not. Those fucking hounds of his seemed to be on to them at one point. Not that it would have mattered. Snow only had twenty men with him, not nearly enough to take them. But he wouldn't put it past the fucker to have more men hidden just out of sight.

The close call had seemed to light a fire under everyone's arse after that. They were already pushing hard, but now they would move with a speed that would have impressed even Ned had he been there to see it. They would swap horses at every inn and at the Last Hearth before riding hard for Castle Black. It was not a ride he was looking forward to. His wife had given him a goodly supply of liniment to help with the sores and bruising, but this ride was sure to bring him a great deal of pain.


	4. Wolves of the North-4

**Roose**

This was humiliating. He was having to sneak into his own lands. The fucking Ironborn still held Moat Cailin. He had ordered Ramsey to retake the castle. But apparently his bastard had failed. That failure had only served to sour his mood even further. The ambush at the Twins had not resulted in the outcome he had wished for. Too many of his fellow Lords had been killed instead of captured and held as hostages.

The one that rankled the most was the Greatjon. The fucking Freys were supposed to get the man drunk and subdue him. Instead, the man had only sipped his ale all night while taking his son's place as Robb Stark's bodyguard. Now the man was dead. But being the Greatjon, he hadn't gone down until he had killed a dozen men. Now he would have the undying enmity of the Umbers to contend with.

Maege Mormont was nowhere to be found after the attack either. Gods only knew where she had gone. Back to Bear Island was the best he could realistically hope for. The Mormonts would never submit to his rule unless their Lady was a prisoner. Having the She-Bear back on her island was the best of the bad options for him at this point. While not a powerful house, the Mormonts could still cause untold amounts of misery for him. More if Maege decided to remain at large stirring up trouble rather than husbanding her strength at home.

Then there was Wendel Manderly. Though only the second son of Wyman, the man loved all his children dearly. He needed Wendel to force Wyman to abandon the Starks and open White Harbor to trade and reinforcements, sell swords mostly, from Tywin Lannister. With the Ironborn closing the King's Road at Moat Cailin and the Manderlys closing the only real port in the North, his domain would be strangled slowly but surely. And the people would grow more and more resentful, until eventually there would be a revolt. Though Wyman's firstborn Wylis had been captured by the Lannisters, he was a prisoner of only marginal usefulness to him. Wylis could be used to force Wyman to do what Tywin wanted, not necessarily what he wanted.

Then there were the Karstarks. Their support at The Twins had been somewhat less than enthusiastic. Though Robb had executed their Lord, and they were rightly furious over it, fighting their fellow Northmen was still something they seemed averse to. He should be able to count on their support with Harion a prisoner of the Lannisters, but Arnolf was a conniving bastard and just may declare for House Stark in the hopes that Tywin would order Harion's execution. That would make Alys the Lady of Last Hearth and Arnolf's son Cregan could always force a marriage to move the Lordship to Arnolf's line. Until the situation at Karhold could be resolved, he would have to be extraordinarily careful about relying on the Karstark forces.

Roose had made a deal with Tywin Lannister. He would end the Northern rebellion and return the North to the fold. In exchange, he would be named Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. But without doing the former, the later would be useless to him. No man could call himself the Warden of the North if he couldn't even control the North. And at the moment, he couldn't control the North. Not all of it. Not the parts that really mattered. All he could control were his own lands, the Barrowlands and the Rills. Winterfell was an abandoned and burned out husk. The lands around White Harbor and the White Knife would do whatever Lord Manderly told them to. The Neck, the parts that were under the control of the Reeds anyway, would back the Starks until the last Stark was dead. And probably for a few years after that as well. The Umbers controlled the lands between the Wolfswood and the Wall, and with the Greatjon dead, he had no way to force their compliance.

The Wolfswood, the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point were all under the control of the Ironborn. As were parts of the Neck. He had hoped to use the campaign to expel the Ironborn to unite the North behind him, despite his killing of Robb Stark. The lack of news from the Twins would have played to his advantage here. He could have spun it as making the hard decision to betray the Starks for the good of the North. That he was saving the North from the ambitions of a reckless and misguided King hellbent on conquest. It would have been a hard sell, but he could have sold it.

That was out of the realm of possibility now. Smalljon Umber and Dacey Mormont had escaped from the Riverlands and with them had gone Robb Stark's will. The will naming his bastard half brother Jon Snow his heir. If they could reach Castle Black with it, they could rally the North behind the boy. And that would be a disaster for his House. All he had done to raise his House up could be undone all because of a scrap of paper and a bastard boy. That he could not and would not allow. He would have to move quickly to secure the North for himself.

So busy was he making his plans, that he scarcely noticed when his party arrived at the Dreadfort. Dismounting, he noticed, but did not acknowledge, his son waiting for him in the courtyard. Instead, he strode past him and issued him a curt order, "My solar, now."

Upon reaching his solar Roose rounded on his bastard son and slapped him across the face. When Ramsey opened his mouth to speak, Roose held up a single finger and said in his low voice, "Not a word. I gave you simple instructions to follow. Simple tasks that needed to be accomplished. You failed them. And in failing them, you failed me. I had to sneak into my own lands because you failed to take Moat Cailin as I instructed you."

"Father, I..."

This time Roose backhanded Ramsey.

"I told you, not a word. Everything you have, you have because I saw fit to give it to you. What is your name?"

"Ramsey Snow."

"Yes, Snow. A bastard. Tell me Ramsey, how many bastards do you know that are given the authority I gave you? Don't answer. I'll tell you myself. None. Remember that. What I have given you, I can take away. Now, Moat Cailin still needs to be taken. Take two hundred men and Theon. Capture Moat Cailin and then perhaps we will discuss your position in my House. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good. Now go."

As Ramsey left, Roose walked to the small table along one wall and poured himself a glass of well watered wine before sitting in his chair and sipping lightly from his glass. The bulk of his men were trapped south of the Neck. He needed those men. Ramsey should be able to take Moat Cailin from the rear with the forces at his disposal. Once the King's Road was clear, he planned to move up through the Barrowlands to Torrhen's Square and then on into the Wolfswood and free both Torrhen's Square and Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn. That would gain him the loyalty of the Tallharts and Glovers. Or at least it would keep them from supporting the Starks. But only if he could execute his plan before the Starks could secure the loyalty of those houses themselves.

He would need to move quickly once the King's Road was once again open to him. He had a window of opportunity here. Delay but an instant and it would close forever. Falter in the execution of his plans, and the shutters would slam shut in his face. It would be like shooting an arrow through a knothole. Difficult, but not impossible. He was committed now. The North would be his. The Southorns called this kind of maneuvering the Game of Thrones. To him, it was survival. And Roose was determined to survive.

Looking up at the sound of a knock from the door of his solar, Roose barked out, "Come."

As his steward entered, the man bobbed his head in respect and said, "My Lord, what should we do with the girl you brought for Ramsey and the letter legitimizing your son as your heir?"

Frowning, Roose replied, "Place the girl under guard in a chamber. Use only men you trust not to be foolish and risk my ire by abusing her. If my son accomplishes his task, he shall have both. Until then, make sure the guards know that they are guarding Arya Stark."

* * *

**Davos**

Lord Davos Seaworth considered himself a simple, blunt, loyal and honest man. And because of that, he couldn't stand to see the man he loved more than any other in Westeros become a kinslayer. He had begged and pleaded with the King to refuse that Red Witch's request to burn Edric as a sacrifice. But Stannis was adamant. The boy would be offered to R'hllor. Over his dead body.

Davos was moving swiftly. The King had told him that Edric would burn tomorrow. Melisandre was busy preparing the pyre and the King himself was still locked in his chambers. It was now or never if he wanted to save the boy's life. He'd already gathered a few trusted men, men that were as loyal to Stannis as he was. And men that were sure not to cave in to that red witch's mad desires. Ser Andrew Estermont was the man he'd put in charge of young Edric's safety. The man was honorable, brave and the boy's cousin. Edric would be safe with him.

Along with preparing a guard, Davos had ordered one of Salladhor's ships to be ready to sail this night. The captain of the ship and Ser Andrew would decide where to take Edric after they had sailed. Davos had suggested Essos. But their final destination was left up to Ser Andrew and Salladhor's captain. Wherever they ended up, Davos wanted the boy to have a good life. He was too good a child to be burned alive in some mad religious ceremony. He deserved better than that. And it was the right thing to do.

As he reached Edric's chambers, he used his authority as Hand of the King to relieve the two guards that were outside the door. Going inside, he saw that Edric was practicing with his war hammer. If anyone needed more proof that the boy was Robert Baratheon's son, this was it.

Whirling about, his hammer at the ready, Edric saw Davos enter his room and relaxed slightly. Nodding his head at him Edric said, "Lord Seaworth."

Smiling in reply, Davos said, "Young Edric. How are you this evening?"

"I'm well, Ser. How are you, my Lord Hand?"

Grimacing a little, Davos turned and sat on the bench by the wall before answering. He then said, "I'm troubled Edric. I've just come from your uncle. I want you to come sit by me. I've got something to tell you."

Upon hearing this, Edric gained a troubled expression himself. Setting down his War Hammer, the last gift his father had sent him before he died, Edric walked over to bench and sat beside Ser Davos. As the boy looked up at him, Ser Davos could see pain already forming behind the lad's eyes. It was a common saying that bastards grew up faster than others did, and Edric was proof of that. The boy was wise beyond his years.

Turning slightly to face Edric more directly, Davos placed his hand on Edric's shoulder and said, "Lad, your uncle the King received news this evening. The North has named a new King and has no intention of returning to the Seven Kingdoms. He was convinced by the Lady Melisandre that he needs to prove his devotion to the Red God. And the only way he can prove that, is by offering him a powerful sacrifice. A sacrifice from King's blood. Only then will his god grant him the Realm."

Edric visibly shudder and his face paled. In a soft, quiet voice, not at all like his father, he asked, "The leeches again?"

Davos was feeling physical pain now. Gods, this was harder than almost anything he had ever had to do before. Only the news that his sons were dead had hurt more than this.

Davos chocked out, "No lad, not the leeches. The Lady Melisandre convinced your uncle to burn you alive."

At that, Edric recoiled in horror, his mouth opened in a silent scream. The shock of what he had just heard seemed to freeze him for a moment. And then Davos saw his face change. It changed from horror to anger. His eyes went from showing shock and pain to showing rage. In that moment, it was like looking at Robert Baratheon reborn.

Jumping up from the bench, Edric swept up his war hammer and faced Ser Davos with rage burning in his eyes and his face fixed in a defiant snarl. Edric said in a voice that screamed 'danger' to anyone who could have heard it, "No man will burn me alive. I know I'm young, not yet a man grown. But I won't go down quietly."

Smiling at the lad, Ser Davos told him, "I never doubted that for a second. I'm not about to let you get burned either. Gather your things. I'm getting you out of Dragonstone tonight. I've got a ship standing by and your cousin, Ser Andrew, is waiting for you down by the docks. Your worth more than a sacrifice lad."

"How can I trust you? You're my unc..., you're King Stannis's Hand. How do I know that you weren't sent here to lure me into going with you peacefully?"

"You're a smart lad. That'll serve you well in the years to come. Either you trust me or you don't. Nothing I can say will change your mind one way or the other. But if you want to live, we need to go now."

Edric stood there, his war hammer still at the ready, his eyes searching Davos' face. His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth as his mind ran through his options. Eventually Edric said, "Alright. I'll go with you. But I'm keeping my war hammer with me and my hand on my knife. One hint that you've lied to me, and you'll be the first person I kill this night."

Giving Edric a lop sided and somewhat rueful smile, Davos told him, "I would expect nothing less from a member of House Baratheon. Now, we have to hurry."

Having said that, the old smuggler turned Knight, Lord of the Rainwood and Hand of the King and the young boy who bore a striking resemblance to King Robert left the small chamber in the out of the way tower on Dragonstone. Their journey to the sea would be fast and silent.

Davos and Edric made it to the docks without incident. Ser Andrew had taken Edric under his protection and the ship had slipped her mooring and was even now disappearing into the night. With most of the King's fleet destroyed in Blackwater Bay, there would be no pursuit.

Young Edric had turned before going below decks and said, "Lord Davos! Thank you."

Davos had smiled and replied, "You're very welcome. Now go before someone sees you."

Turning to Ser Andrew, the old knight told the Reacher, "He's in your care now. See that he lives a long, full life. And take this, it will help make things easier for you."

With that, he had placed a bag full of Dragons in Ser Andrews hand and turned and walked away. For now began the hardest part of this night's work. Telling his King that he had betrayed him. Well, perhaps that could wait until morning when Melisandre discovered that the boy was gone. No sense in risking the lad's safety now.

That night, Davos didn't sleep at all. He knew he had done the right thing. He could not stand idly by and let Stannis become a kinslayer. But to save his King, he had betrayed his King. He had done what was right. And for doing what was right, he might very well pay with his life. So be it, he thought. If that was what the cost would be, he would pay it. He would go to meet the Stranger with a clean conscience.

With the coming dawn, there also came a pounding on the door to Davos' chambers. Looking up from his desk where he had been laboriously penning a letter to his wife, he shouted "Come!"

As the door opened, he saw a guard in Baratheon livery in the door who then said, "My Lord Hand?"

"Yes?"

"My Lord, the King requires your presence in his solar immediately."

"Very well. I'm on my way."

As the guard withdrew, Davos finished his letter, signed his name and then sealed it with his wife's name on it. If all went well, it was a letter she would never read. If it didn't, well, hopefully someone would send it to her. Rising to his feet, Davos took one last look around his chamber, smoothed his clothes a bit with his hands, and made his way to the King's solar.

Upon entering, he saw at once that Melisandre was already there. As usual, her face showed not the slightest sign of emotion. The Gods damned red witch was impossible to read. Even for someone like him who had been reading people his entire life.

"Lord Davos," the King said. "Edric is missing. The Lady Melisandre went to his rooms this morning, and the boy, along with most of his belongings, were gone. You spoke most vigorously with me yesterday about sparing the boy's life. I'll hear it from you now Ser. Did you help the boy escape?"

"I did, your Grace. No man is more accursed than a kinslayer. And with all due respect your Grace, I'd not be serving you faithfully if I stood by while you murdered your nephew. The Iron Throne is yours by right, but no man will support you if you burn your own kin at the stake. No matter what poison she drips in your ears."

Stannis stood by his desk, a hard look on his face while the sounds of grinding teeth could faintly be heard. Melisandre stood by the hearth, her hands folded in front of her, her face as inscrutable as ever. Finally, Melisandre turned to Stannis and said:

"My King, Lord Davos admits his crime. He has betrayed not only you, but R'hllor as well. There can be only one punishment for such a crime. Have Lord Davos take young Edric's place."

Speaking up, Davos said, "Your Grace, I disobeyed your orders, it's true. I won't deny that. I did what I was thought was right. When you made me Hand of the King you made it my responsibility to look out for your interests. And letting you kill your own nephew to please some mad god would not be fulfilling my duty to you. Now if you decide different, then fine. I'll gladly pay with my life if you demand. But don't let her burn me. If you truly believe I need to die, let it be you that swings the sword, same as when you took my fingers."

The sound of tooth grinding continued for a moment longer, then Stannis spoke.

"Lord Davos Seaworth. By your own admission, you've betrayed your King and committed treason. I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of Westeros, sentence you to die." Drawing Lightbringer from the sheath at his side, he asked, "Do you have any last words?"

"Yes, your Grace. I received this letter from Maester Pylos to practice my reading. Allow me to read it now. It's from Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch.

_"To all the Lords and Noble Men of Westeros_

_The Night's Watch implores you to heed our warning. Winter is coming, but not as we have seen for hundreds of years past. Only one man has returned from North of the Wall, the only man left from my company of brothers with news of sights I never thought to report. The Others have arisen again and they ride through the northern lands beyond the Wall, taking our fallen and making them their own kind. An army of the dead marches forth hundred, perhaps thousands, who can only be killed by fire. Prepare your defenses my Lords. They are coming._

_Aemon, Maester of the Night's Watch, Castle Black."_

What followed was a moment of stunned silence. Melisandre then quickly turned towards the fire that was blazing in the hearth, muttered a quick prayer under her breath and peered into the flames. Suddenly, the Red Witch drew a sharp breath that was audible across the room.

"He speaks the truth. The Great Other is awake and marches on the Wall. My King, we must act."

The room was silent again, the only sound coming from Stannis as he ground his teeth.

"Your Grace, if I may?" Davos cautiously said. "Sail North. Show the realm that you are the rightful King by _being_ the King. Lead the defense of the Realm."

"No. The North still rises in rebellion. They've named Jon Snow King in the North. The Wall was built to keep The Others at bay. It can continue to do so. If the North wants my aid, they must bend the knee."

"But Sire..." Melisandre began.

"No. They have named Jon Snow King in the North. Westeros only has one true King. Me. I'll not spend my strength fighting for rebels."

"Then allow me to treat with them, your Grace," said Davos. "Allow me to go to them and ask them to bend the knee."

The silence stretched on and on. Melisandre continued to look into the flames, Davos remained on his knees looking up at the King while Stannis himself stared at the glowing sword in his hand. Finally Stannis looked at Davos.

"Go. Set sail for White Harbor. Speak to Ned Stark's son when you find him. Bend the knee, and I'll name him Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. And the North will have my army to fight off the Others and ward off the Long Night."

* * *

**Smalljon**

Mole's Town was a ruin. The village reeked of burnt wood and peat, spoiled and burned food and charred meat. What few bodies they had been able to find had been burned to bones and ash. Someone had put the torch to the village. And recently, too. The ashes were still hot. One of the Manderly scouts thought that the town had been burned just this morning. Another had ridden hard up to them just an hour ago with a report that he had found the remains of a Wildling camp just to the west of here. A large party too. Put the two pieces of the puzzle together, and the answer soon became clear. A Wildling raiding party had come through here and sacked the town. If the Gods were good, perhaps they could catch them and kill them before they could cause any more mischief in the North.

At a signal from Lord Marlon, they all mounted back up on their tired horses and shook themselves out into some kind of order. Castle Black was only half a league away and already an outrider had been dispatched to scout the road ahead. With Wildlings, Ironborn and Bolton men on the loose, you could never be too careful. Especially now that they were so close. The sun dropping in the west didn't help matter much either.

Just as the party was about to ride out, the scout they had sent ahead to Castle Black came riding back at a gallop. The man was pushing his horse for everything it was worth. A fact that was born out when the animal let out a scream and collapsed as the man reigned it to a stop. The man that had been atop the beast was not in much better condition seeing as he was swaying on his feet with an arrow in his shoulder and blood pouring from the wound and cascading down his arm.

Panting from the pain and the exertion, the scout ran up to Lord Marlon and the Smalljon and said in a hoarse voice, "Wildlings! At least two hundred of em. Just outside the gates to Castle Black. They're launching an attack on the castle!"

Shaking his head, Smalljon said, "Well that's the height of stupidity. The Night's Watch will slaughter them where they stand!"

Giving a tired shake of his head, the scout replied, "No, M'lord. I counted no more than ten men of the Watch on the walls. They'll be crushed by sheer numbers."

"Only ten men," exclaimed Marlon Manderly! The Lord's eyes were wide as an ale horn as he heard the news. "There were over two hundred men there the last I heard!"

"Only ten, M'lord," slurred the scout.

Looking at the man Smalljon realized that he was on the verge of passing out from the pain and the blood loss. No matter. The man had done his duty and warned them of the danger. Now they could do theirs.

Motioning to the two Manderly men-at-arms that had come up behind the wounded scout, Smalljon told them, "You two stay here, tend to his wound. Get something hot into him if you have anything in your saddlebags. We'll be back shortly."

Seeing Dacey near them, Smalljon waved her over and asked, "You heard, then?"

"I did," Dacey replied. "We need to ride hard for Castle Black. If we can hit the wildlings in the rear, we can run a lance so far up their arses that they'll be able to taste the steel at the tip."

Nodding his agreement, Marlon said, "Aye. But we need to move fast. Even with the walls, ten men can't hold off two hundred for long."

"Agreed," said Smalljon.

"What about the banners? I think we should fly our banners when we hit those fuckers so they know who routed them," suggested Dacey.

"Aye, lets," said Smalljon. Pointing to one of the Stark guardsmen with them, he shouted at him, "YOU! Unfurl His Grace's banner! Let's make sure those wildling fucks know that the North won't stand for their raiding and murdering! _FOR THE NORTH!!"_

Raising their spears, swords and bows into the air, the men in their party shouted out, _"FOR THE NORTH!!"_

As the small host remounted their horses, the running direwolf banner of House Stark began snapping in the breeze above them. It was soon joined by the rearing bear of House Mormont, the trident wielding merman of House Manderly and the roaring giant of House Umber. As their banners whipped in the wind above him, Smalljon Umber's face wore a predatory grin as his eyes glinted with anticipation. He was eager for the fight that was coming. Killing wildlings wouldn't give him the same satisfaction that killing the Bolton's or the Freys would, but it would still somewhat slack his bloodlust. Dropping his left hand down to his side, he made sure his great sword was still strapped to the side of his saddle. Soon enough, it's blade would be red with blood.

Moving at a canter, Lord Marlon led them up the King's Road towards Castle Black. At this pace, they would save the horses enough so that the final charge into the wildlings could be made at a full gallop. The murdering whoresons would be crushed under the weight of their spears and would likely shatter into a thousand pieces. That would suit him just fine. The North needed to preserve it's strength now, not waste it fighting wildlings. Not while The Wall still stood between them. They had a war to win against the Boltons, Freys and Lannisters first. A war that the North needed to win.

Just as the sun disappeared in the west, Smalljon began to hear the sounds of battle ahead. There was steel ringing, men screaming and a constant, heavy thud. With his eyes narrowing, Smalljon realized that the thud must be a battering ram, trying to break down the gate to Castle Black. As they rode closer, he started to get a sinking feeling in his gut. The northern horizon was glowing red, orange and yellow. The fucking wildlings must have started to set the wooden walls of Castle Black on fire. His suspicion was confirmed once they drew near to the castle as the smell of burning wood, boiling pitch and blackened flesh filled the air.

Reaching the last rise before Castle Black, Lord Marlon slowed their party to minimize their noise in an attempt to take the wildlings in the rear by surprise. Peering over the crest of the small ridge, Smalljon turned his head and nodded to Marlon. The wildlings were unaware of their presence.

With an eager grin, Marlon quietly ordered, "Up and over lads. No noise until we're right on top of them, then scream like the demons from all Seven Hells are trying to bugger you up your arse!"

Before riding over the crest, Dacey turned to the archers with them and said, "Bowmen! Once we're over the crest, move to the top of the hill and nock your arrows! As we draw close, let them fly! Move forward as we enter the castle and pick your targets! For the North!"

With the orders given, one hundred and twenty mounted men launched themselves at the wildlings. Closer and closer they charged, their mounts building speed with every passing breath. Thundering down the ridge and across the valley floor. At last, the wildlings began to realize that they had an enemy in their rear. First one turned, then another. Before the first could even shout a warning however, an arrow sailed out of the night sky and plunged into and through the man's neck, ripping his throat in two. The arrow prevented him from uttering more than a gargle as he died. The second man took an arrow through his eye, killing him. But not before he let out a blood curdling scream. A proper warning it may not have been, but it was enough to alert the wildlings to the danger behind them.

But it was too late. Just as the wildling chieftain gave the order to turn to face this new threat, the Northern host slammed into them. With a roar, their horses broke into the wildlings. From the men erupted shouts of, _"THE NORTH!" "THE KING IN THE NORTH!" "WINTERFELL!"_

Smalljon's sword was in his hand as his courser slammed into the wildlings. With a roar that seemed more beast than man, he swung his great sword down in a vicious cut and cleanly took the head off a Thenn who had turned to face them. Redirecting his blade, he took the arm from another man who had yet to turn. A third ran at him with a spear which Smalljon deflected before running his sword through the man's gullet, at least a foot of his sword showing through the man's back. Smalljon put his foot on the dead man's chest and wrenched his blade free.

Looking around at the rest of the battle, he saw Dacey laying about herself with her mace. She was surrounded by a growing pile of bodies as more and more wildlings fell to her. Ser Marlon was cutting down yet more Thenns with his long sword, it's blade running red with blood. Deciding that he had spent enough time looking about, Smalljon pushed his warhorse closer to the gates of Castle Black. Through the broken gates, he saw a small man in black leading the defenders, a bastard sword in his hand. From the look of him, he could only be Ned Stark's son and his King.

Cutting his way through the Thenns, he pushed closer and closer to the line of Black Brothers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wildling woman with flaming red hair and a bow sending arrows into Men of the Watch, perilously close to his King. Switching his sword to his left hand, he drew his knife from his belt, and with a powerful throw, buried the knife to it's hilt into her chest. Smalljon didn't particularly like killing women, but she _was_ a wildling and she _was_ trying to kill them.

As the two Northern forces pushed closer together, the wildlings were being squeezed between them. More and more of them were being cut down as the beleaguered Men of the Watch rallied and the Northmen continued their assault. With Smalljon in the vanguard of the assault, the Northmen were pushing closer and closer towards their King. The Black Brothers, for their part, took heart at the sight of the proudly flapping banners above them. Cries of, _"FOR THE WATCH!"_ rose around him as the pitifully few defenders made yet another charge against the wildlings. Courage was certainly not lacking on this day.

Finally, it was finished. The battle was won and Castle Black relieved. The wildlings had been slaughtered to a man, none survived. No quarter was offered, nor was any asked for. The centuries of violence between them had seen to that. As the men began to tend to their wounded comrades, Ser Marlon Manderly, Lady Dacey Mormont and Lord Jon Umber approached the man who would be their King.

As the trio approached, Jon Snow said to them, "Thank the gods you arrived when you did. Did my brother send you?"

Speaking for the three of them, Smalljon said, "In a way he did." As he said that, Smalljon hung his head in shame. Shame that he hadn't been there to protect his friend and his King. Shame that he had survived when so many good Northern men hadn't. And shame that he was having to give another man some of the worst news any man could receive.

Looking back at Jon, Smalljon continued, "His Grace, King Robb is dead. He was betrayed and murdered in a plot by the Freys and Boltons. Before he died, he commanded Lady Dacey and myself to bring this letter to you and to Lord Commander Mormont."

Saying that, Smalljon pulled the sealed letter from the pocket in his tunic and held it out to Jon Snow. Just as Smalljon pulled the letter out, Jon Snow gave a strangled cry, dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Smalljon couldn't even imagine what the man must be feeling. First his father, then in rapid succession all three of his brothers. And the gods alone knew what was happening with his sisters.

When Jon looked up, he saw the letter in Smalljon's hand. With a trembling hand, he took the letter, saw the Seal of Winter upon it, broke it, and began to read before seeming to freeze. As Jon _Stark_ looked up from the letter, Smalljon, Dacey and Marlon all dropped to one knee and bowed their heads to their King.


	5. Wolves of the North-5

**Jon**

"His Grace, King Robb, is dead." That was all Jon heard Smalljon Umber say. He saw his lips still moving and he saw him pull a sealed letter out of his tunic, but he could hear nothing else. First Father, then Bran and Rickon, now Robb. Jon felt his heart turn to lead in his chest. He was only vaguely aware that he had let out a cry and fallen to his knees. He felt the tears running down his cheeks into his thin beard. His brother was dead. He had loved Robb nearly as much as he had loved Father. He and Robb had been as close as two brothers could be. Despite his status as a bastard, despite the way Lady Stark had treated him, despite everything.

Jon dropped his head into his hands and sobbed quietly. There had been so much death. North of the Wall against the Free Folk, wights and Others. South of the Wall, again against the Free Folk. And south of the Neck as well. His entire family was gone. He had heard that Sansa still lived, but was married to the Lannisters. He had heard multiple versions of what happened to Arya. Everything from "she's a captive sitting in a Black Cell," to "she was found face down in a ditch." What it all amounted to was, his family was dead. Uncle Benjen, Father, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa and Arya. All gone or held hostage. He was the last of his family and he was forbidden from having children. House Stark had ruled the North for eight thousand years. And in just three years, it had been almost entirely wiped out. What gods had they so angered to have caused this?

When Jon looked up from where he had fallen, he saw Smalljon still holding the letter in his hands. Reaching to take the letter, Jon cursed himself for being weak as his hand was shaking. The rush from the fight and the shock of hearing his brother was dead was taking it's toll on him. Taking the letter from Smalljon, he looked down on it and saw that it was secured with the Seal of Winter. The ancient seal of House Stark, last used by Torrhen Stark before he knelt to Aegon Targaryen. Brushing his fingers lightly over the seal, Jon smiled sadly. This was quite possibly the last thing his brother had written.

Standing up, Jon pulled a knife from his belt, slid its blade under the seal and opened the letter. Seeing Robb's handwriting, Jon gave another sad smile. Within the letter addressed to him, were another two documents, likewise sealed with the Seal of Winter. Opening the letter addressed to him first, Jon began to read:

_"Dear Jon_

_Enclosed within this letter you will find two documents. My will and a further letter to Lord Commander Mormont. Please deliver the letter to the Lord Commander after you have read this. This war is not going as well as I had hoped. I've made too many mistakes. I'm winning every battle, but I'm losing the war. When I first called the banners and marched south, I made a deal with Lord Walder Frey of The Twins. I agreed to marry one of his daughters and he agreed to allow my army passage over the Trident and to join our cause._

_However, I broke my vow to him. I married Jeyne Westerling after I slept with her following her treating my wounds from a battle outside the walls of her family's castle. I was worried that I may have fathered a child on her and had no wish to destroy her honor. So I traded my honor for hers. And in exchange, I infuriated the Freys who have since abandoned me. I am traveling now to make amends for the insult I gave to House Frey. Uncle Edmure will be taking my place and marrying Roslin Frey. We go now to his wedding at the Twins._

_However, I have had news that Sansa has been forced to marry the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. I worry that Lord Tywin Lannister has designs on using her to take Winterfell should I fall in battle. Which brings me to the point of my letter to you. I cannot risk the Lannisters ever having a claim on our home. You are as much Father's son as I. From this day, you are hereby Jon Stark, legitimate son of Eddard Stark and my heir."_

Jon felt his entire body go stiff. His fingers grasped the bit of foolscrap the letter had been penned on tightly. His eyes opened wide. The full import of Robb's words to him hit him all at once. He was Jon Stark. The heir to Winterfell. And then a second realization hit just moments latter. Robb was dead. Robb had named him his heir. In one sentence, Jon had gone from being a bastard and Man of the Watch, to King in the North.

Jon slowly looked up from the letter he had yet to finish reading. And as his eyes came above the parchment, he saw Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont and Marlon Manderly all drop to one knee before him and bow their heads. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He was in shock. Jon knew he was in shock, but he could do nothing about it. When he was a child, he had dreamed so many times of one day ruling Winterfell. Only now did he realize what those dreams coming true would truly cost.

Ser Marlon raised his head back towards him and said, in a quiet voice, "Your Grace? Perhaps you should finish the letter from your brother."

Still unable to speak, Jon nodded his head and turned his eyes back to the letter his brother had sent him:

_"I know this must be a great shock for you, and I had intended to tell you personally when I arrive at Castle Black in a few months. But some gods damned voice in the back of my head is warning me that I should tell you now. I thought for long hours on this, and as I'm sure you can guess, my Mother is completely opposed to the idea. But Mother has made mistakes as well. Among them the way she treated you when we were boys growing up in Winterfell. Recently however, she released the Kingslayer from captivity. She says that he swore an oath to return Sansa and Arya to her. But you and I know what his word is worth. He is an oathbreaker, and therefore not to be trusted. And as Father once told us, words are wind._

_I cannot forgive Mother for this treason, nor can I punish her harshly for it. Love, grief and despair caused her to act as she did. However, I can use her actions to force her into agreeing with me. And that is what I have done. She has agreed to accept you as my heir over Sansa and Arya until such time as Jeyne bears me children._

_In my enclosed will, is the official decree legitimizing you and naming you my heir. Also within, is a proclamation from me releasing you from your Night's Watch vows. I need all the Starks I can get around me now Jon. Father always told us, 'The lone wolf dies, while the pack survives.' It is long past time that you and I stopped being lone wolves._

_I urge you brother, head to Winterfell immediately. Though our home has been burned by that treasonous cunt Theon, I beg you, go there. Rebuild our halls and our walls. Rule the North in my name until I return. I will meet you there once I've retaken Moat Cailin. Then together, we will free the North from the Ironborn who have invaded it._

_Your loving brother,_

_Robb"_

Jon had tears in his eyes again as he finished reading the letter. Gods but he missed his brother. And now he would never see him again. Blinking his eyes clear, he saw that Marlon, Dacey and Smalljon were all still on their knees, though all were now looking up at him.

"Stand up, all of you. You and your men just saved all our lives. The Thenns had us well and truly fucked if you hadn't shown up when you did."

"Yes, Your Grace," said Smalljon.

Hearing Smalljon, hells, hearing anyone call him "Your Grace" came as a shock to Jon. He didn't want this. Not in a hundred years would he have ever wanted to take Robb's place as King in the North. But this was what Robb wanted. It had been his brother's last wish. And he would honor it. He may not have wanted it, but he would put his soul into ruling the North well.

As the three Lords rose, Jon said, "We have much to do. We need to clear the Castle yard and above all, we need to burn these bodies."

Speaking for the first time, Dacey said, "Your Grace, why not just fling the bodies back over the Wall? Let the wildlings have em. Show those cunts why they don't fuck with the North."

"No. We burn them. Tonight. Why is a long tale that we don't have time for tonight. But I'll explain it all in the morning."

Nodding his head, Smalljon said, "Yes, Your Grace."

Having said that, Smalljon turned to the men that had stormed the gates with him, and the bowmen who had since made their way to the castle and shouted out, "Right you lazy fucks! Gather the dead wildlings outside the gates, the fallen Black Brothers inside them! Strip their arms and armor! Get to it!"

Marlon nodded his head sharply and added his own voice to those shouting orders saying, "You, you and you!" As he pointed at three men in Manderly colors. "Get a pyre built for those wildlings!"

As the Northmen and the Men of the Watch began going about their grisly task, Jon began searching among the wildlings for Ygritte. He knew she would be here somewhere. And he knew, in his heart, that she would be dead. It was yet one more sorrow he had to bear. But it was one he would have to bear silently. He wasn't a nameless bastard anymore who could love a spearwife without fear. He was King in the North now. And his bannermen would never understand nor accept their King loving a wildling.

When Jon found her, she was laying on her side. One hand still held her weirwood bow, while the other lay across the knife in her chest. Jon brushed his hand across her face, pushing her hair back from her cheek. Looking around, he saw no one watching, and leaned down over her and gave her a last kiss before closing her eyes with his hand and pulling the knife from her chest. She deserved better than a mass funeral pyre. She belonged to the North, the _true_ North as the rest of the Free Folk would say. But with Mance's army camped outside their gates, he couldn't bring her there.

While he knelt by Ygritte's body, Ghost padded up to him on silent paws and nudged Jon with his massive head. The white direwolf always seemed to know what Jon was feeling and thinking. Reaching out his hand, Jon ruffled the fur around Ghost's neck and scratched behind his ears.

Looking at his direwolf, Jon saw Ghost's red eyes staring back at him. He whispered to him, "Thank you, boy."

Standing back on his feet, Jon walked to where the Northern Lords were waiting and where Donal Noye stood with them. Jon walked to the old one armed blacksmith and clasped his arm while looking into his eyes and nodding.

"I understand that you're to be leaving us, Jon?"

Nodding his head, Jon replied, "Aye. My brother named me his heir and released me from my vows. And with his death..." Jon trailed off, unable to finish as a profound sense of loss once again intruded on him.

"We'll be sad to see you go. The Watch needs more men like you. Honest men that can keep the rouges in line. Don't forget about the Watch lad. Nor what's coming."

"I won't. You have my word. Besides, they have you. That's all they need to keep them honoring their vows."

Nodding sharply, Donal Noye strode off to finish preparations to burn the bodies of his brothers. After Donal strode off, Ser Marlon coughed gently and said,

"Your Grace? My cousin bade me give you this letter once you had read the one from your brother. He pledges all of House Manderly to your cause and within has included some few suggestions on how best to proceed to secure the loyalty of the other Lords, sire."

Having said, that, Marlon handed Jon the letter who nodded his thanks and tucked it into the pouch at his waist. Jon then finally asked the question that had been burning inside him since learning of Robb's death.

"How did my brother die?"

Dacey and Smalljon looked down at their feet for a moment before both looked Jon in the eye. And in their eyes was pain, rage and humiliation. Those emotions were as plain as the sky above.

Dacey replied to her King, "He was betrayed, Your Grace. He was led into a trap at the Twins by the Freys. Lord Edmure Tully was to wed one of Walder Frey's daughters and during the wedding, the fucking Frey's broke guest rights and murdered your brother and all his men. With the help of the fucking Boltons. Rumor has it that Roose Bolton himself killed King Robb. While we were at White Harbor, Lord Manderly received a raven from King's Landing. Declaring Roose Bolton the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell and ordering Lord Manderly to bend the knee."

While hearing this, Jon's anger kept growing hotter and hotter, until his rage was burning like a white hot flame inside him, hotter than Donal Noye's forge. The wolf's blood in him screamed to be released, to seek vengeance on his enemies. His hands had slowly contracted into fists while listening to Dacey, his knuckles were white and his face was red with barely contained rage. Struggling mightily, Jon forced himself to think with his head, and not his heart. For his heart sought vengeance and retribution. His head sought that as well, but his head also cautioned him that he would have to plan his actions carefully, and not rush into things as he often did.

Through clenched teeth, Jon said, "They will pay. The Boltons. The Freys. Anyone who had a hand in the murder of my brother will pay. The Boltons will be wiped from memory. This I swear by the Old Gods."

At hearing his words, Dacey, Smalljon and Marlon nodded their heads and wore anticipatory grins. They would look forward to this.

Later, as the bodies of all those who fought and died at Castle Black burned, Jon Stark stood beside his Black Brothers one last time. To his left stood Maester Aemon. To his right stood Donal Noye. Behind him was Samwell Tarly. And all around were the few remnants of the Watch that remained at the Castle. Along with his brothers, Jon said the words that released the dead from their vows as they burned, "And now their watch is ended."

* * *

**Brynden**

He had to choke down the bile again. Every time he looked back over his shoulder, it made the gorge rise in his throat. He was running. And he hated running. He had no choice in the matter, but it still galled him to run. He didn't have the men to hold Riverrun. His idiot nephew had taken all but one hundred men with him to the Twins, leaving the castle woefully undefended.

He looked again. He shouldn't have, but he did. This time, he wasn't able to choke the bile down and vomited on the side of the road. He could still see his childhood home and the sight made him sick. For as he looked on, the Leaping Trout banners of his house were cut down and the Twin Towers of House Frey rose above the battlements and towers. He wished that he'd given in to his impulse to put the castle to the torch. But at the last moment, he couldn't bring himself to set the oil soaked rags alight and let his home burn. So instead he now tortured himself by seeing the fucking Freys sacking Riverrun. It was a sight that he made sure to burn into his memory. Today was a day that would not be forgotten. And after today, he would not run again.

But what choice did he have now? He had his nephew's wife in his care. Lady (Queen?) Jeyne Stark. Or was it Westerling again now that Robb was dead? Gods he didn't know. Truth be told, he didn't care. Robb had charged him with her safety and he'd be damned if he didn't keep her safe. His nephew thought she might be with child. They had certainly been trying enough. They had kept half the castle awake it seemed. Gods, his mind kept wandering off. He needed to concentrate or he'd lead everyone with him straight to their deaths.

He had ordered the evacuation of Riverrun. Not a soul was left inside the castle. After the initial panic of their flight, Brynden decided where they would go. They were headed to Raventree Hall. The Blackwoods had been the only house in the Riverlands to enthusiastically embrace the rule of the Starks. They'd also likely be the last house to submit to the Iron Throne. From there, they could possibly make their way to Oldstones or Seaguard, hire, buy or hijack a ship and get to the North. Cat had told him what Robb was planning on doing before his death. While he didn't know for sure whether he actually had, the rumors he had heard strongly suggested that Robb had legitimized his bastard half-brother Jon and named him his heir.

Brynden had to be honest with himself. He had never really cared for Jon. He'd met him once or twice. Seemed bright, the beginnings of a good fighter maybe. But that was it. Everything else he knew about him had been via Cat's letters to the Eryie when he was Knight of the Bloody Gate there. And those letters were decidedly unflattering. But the boy would have no love of the Lannisters. Or the Freys. And according to Robb, Jon dearly loved his family. So North they would go. It was exile of a sort, but an exile that he fully intended to return from.

While he doubted that anyone in the Riverlands would accept Jon as King, maybe he could persuade the King in the North to help return Riverrun to his House. After all, Jon must want bloody vengeance against the Freys at least as much as he did. He didn't have to like the bastard, but as long as their goals were aligned, he'd lend his support to him. And hopefully get support in return.

Nearly a week later, his tired, cold, wet and hungry group rode dejectedly into the courtyard at Raventree Hall. The woods and hills were crawling with Freys and men from the Reach. It wouldn't take long for even a dullard like Walder Fucking Frey to figure out where they went after abandoning Riverrun. They couldn't afford to tarry here for long. But they all needed rest and food. And the Blackwoods were loyal to the Tullys.

Lord Tytos Blackwood himself met them in the courtyard, despite the cold rain falling from the leaden skies. As the two men clasped hands, Tytos quickly offered Guest Right. This earned a bitter smile from Brynden. Lot of fat good Guest Right did for his nephew. Still, it was appreciated. While the hostlers rushed about getting their horses into the stables and getting them fed and dried, Brynden and his party made their way into the Great Hall. Once inside, they warmed themselves in front of the blazing fire in the massive hearth while gratefully sipping from mugs of hot mulled cider.

Sitting across from Brynden, Lord Blackwood sighed heavily and looked deep into Brynden's eyes.

"A black day at the end of a black week, My Lord," Tytos said.

Oh, it was a black week alright. His own name seemed to haunt him now. The Blackfish. Well, the name still suited his mood, which was decided black at the moment. But instead of saying all that, Brynden just grunted in response.

Pulling a Raven Scroll from his sleeve, Tytos said, "This came just yesterday. From King's Landing."

Taking the offered scroll, Brynden began to read.

_"To all the Noble Houses of the Riverlands,_

_The insurrection known as the War of the Five Kings is at an end. Robb Stark, the so-called King in the North, is dead. Lord Edmure Tully has been stripped of his titles and attainted. Lord Emmon Frey is hereby named Lord of Riverrun. Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhall is hereby named Lord Paramount of the Trident. Submit to the Iron Throne, swear fealty to the King and to Lord Baelish or suffer the fate of all traitors._

_Tywin Lannister_

_Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Hand of the King"_

Brynden had to read the message twice. His House had been stripped of their lands and titles. And that fucking weasel Baelish was appointed Lord Paramount! For the first time since his brother died, he was actually glad he was dead. Because this message would not only have killed him, it would have broken his heart.

As Brynden looked up at Blackwood, he heard the man say, "Fuck the Iron Throne. Fuck the Freys. Fuck Baelish. And fuck Tywin Fucking Lannister. We owe our allegiance to House Tully and to House Stark. As far as we're concerned, the Iron Throne has no authority here."

"Tytos, you can't stand against the Iron Throne alone. Robb's army is broken and scattered to the winds. You'll be crushed."

"I know. That's why I want you to take Brynden, Lucas, Hoster, Bethany and Robert with you. I know you've got some plan in mind to get King Robb's wife to safety. Take my children with you, keep em safe, and then return them to me when you come back with an army."

"And what will you do?"

"Stay here and publicly submit to the Iron Throne. Like you said, what choice do I have? If I don't I'll be killed almost out of hand. But feign submission, and I can build my strength to support you when you return. And in the meantime, I can plead to anyone who will listen how the Blackfish took five of my children as hostages and how that prevents me from actually doing anything in support of the Crown."

Shaking his head, Brynden told him, "You're a wilier man than you look Blackwood. All right. I'll take your children under my care. You want to know where we're going?"

"I'm guessing it starts with 'Winter' and ends with 'fell.' But no, I don't want to know. It's less I can tell anyone should the worst happen."

"All right. Well, in that case, I can definitely tell you that we're heading to Essos. Try to recruit some of the sellsword companies."

With a glint in his eye, Tytos nodded. "A wise choice, My Lord."

"I thought so."

"By the way, I've got a small ship squirrelled away up on the coast. Safer than going to Oldstones or Seaguard. Randall Tarly has men there looking for you."

"Perfect. We'll leave at first light then."


	6. Wolves of the North-6

**Jon**

He didn't _feel_ different. _Shouldn't_ he feel different, now that he was King? He didn't know. He still just felt like himself. But he was different. Or rather, people looked at him differently. He wasn't just Jon Snow, or Lord Snow as Ser Alliser had taken to calling him, anymore. He was Jon Stark, Third of his Name, the King in the North and of the Trident. How was a King _supposed_ to feel? He didn't know. His father had never prepared him for this. Jon had been educated as a Lord, true. And he was reasonably sure he could rule a holdfast or serve as castellan of a castle. But rule the entire North? How was he supposed to do something that he was never trained for? Or, for that matter, ever expected to do?

Even his quarter's at Castle Black had changed. Instead of the barracks, he was quartered at the top of the King's Tower. The first King ever to actually use it, despite it's name. As he slouched in the large, comfortable chair in front of the fire he faintly heard the snap and crack of the banner of House Stark stirring in the wind through the timbers of the roof above him. For so long he had been denied the use of House Stark's banner because of his status as a bastard. Now that banner was his. And he would have to do everything in his power to see it fly over all the North again. As he sat brooding before the roaring fire in his hearth, he thought of what he read in Robb's letter and the one from Lord Manderly. Robb's was straight, clear and to the point. Lord Manderly's however painted a much more blurred, and more dire, picture for him.

Well, first things first. In the morning he'd explain to Smalljon, Dacey and Marlon exactly what they were facing from the North. And that was not going to be a pleasant conversation. The Umbers and Mormonts had been fighting wildlings for thousands of years and had built a fierce hatred between them. And considering what he wanted them to accept, well, the best he could hope for was a lot of shouting and cursing. But it was something that had to be done.

Maester Aemon had given him some strong advice as well earlier in the evening when he had sought him out. The ancient Maester had told him, "Kill the boy, Jon Snow. And let the man, Jon Stark, be born." It was good advice. And he intended to listen to it. Jon would kill the boy inside him and let himself become the King that the North needed. With that decision made, he finally heaved himself up from the chair he had been lounging in and made his way to bed.

When the sun rose the next morning, Jon Stark was already awake to greet it. He'd been up for hours already. Most of that time had been spent in the Great Hall with Sam and Gilly. Sam had kitchen duty in addition to his duties with Maester Aemon and Gilly, well, she tended to go wherever Sam went and pitch in wherever she could. It felt good to just talk with the two of them. And Sam had been a good sounding board for his ideas. What he lacked in physical courage, Sam more than made up for with his mind. Jon could use a man like Sam by his side and had toyed with the idea of releasing Sam from his vows so he could stay with him. Sam had put a stop to that train of thought though. Jon's circumstances were unique. It would set a bad precedent for the King in the North to start releasing people from their vows just because he felt like it. And besides, the Watch needed every man they could get. So in the end, Jon had left the idea alone.

As Smalljon, Dacey and Marlon made their way into the Great Hall to eat, Jon steeled himself for what lay ahead. Nodding to the chairs across from him, he watched as the Northmen, and woman, made their way to their seats. Here we go, he thought.

Jon began, "Smalljon, Dacey, Ser Marlon. I promised you all that I'd explain why it was so important that we burn the bodies last night. I'll warn you now, this is going to sound completely mad and you're all likely to start wondering if you just made a mistake making me King."

"Your Grace," Smalljon asked? He had a confused tone in his voice and his face was clearly showing his confusion.

Holding his hand up in a placating gesture, Jon continued, "Two years ago, just before Robb called the banners and the day I said my vows to the Watch, we found two bodies just inside the trees to the north of the gate here at Castle Black. They were both sworn brothers and Rangers, Othor and Jafer were their names. They had gone with my uncle beyond the Wall on a Ranging. We brought them back through the Wall and had them laid out in the courtyard for Maester Aemon to examine in the morning. He never got the chance to. Their bodies came back to life that night and attacked the Lord Commander."

"Their bodies did _what!?_" Dacey asked in an astonished voice.

"They came back to life. Only they weren't really alive. Both men had brown eyes when they left on their ranging. They had blue when they came back. Blue eyes that glowed. When they attacked Lord Commander Mormont, I tried to stop them. I cut Othor's arm off with my sword, but it didn't even slow him down. And his arm kept moving and grasping at me. Even though it was laying on the ground."

"Your Grace," Ser Marlon said slowly. "You'll have to forgive me, but this tale..."

"I did warn you that you'd say it's mad. We eventually killed Othor and Jafer by burning them. But not before they'd managed to kill several Men of the Watch. That's why it was so important that we burn the bodies."

"But why did they come back to life," asked Dacey?

"The Others. It's been eight thousand years, but the Others have returned."

Turning in his seat, Jon called out, "Sam! Come here! You too Edd! I need the both of you to tell what you saw on the Great Ranging."

The looks on the faces of Smalljon, Dacey and Marlon when Sam and Edd finished their tale ranged from incredulous to doubtful to shocked. After a few minutes, Smalljon ran his hand through his beard and looked shrewdly at Jon.

"That's all well and good, but why tell us all that? We're Northmen. We burn our dead anyway. What aren't you telling us?"

Jon gave a small rueful grin and a nod of his head to Smalljon. "What I haven't told you is what we need to do about it. Just North of the wall there's an army of Wildlings led by Mance Rayder. If we leave them there, they'll be slaughtered by the Others and their army of the dead. To be raised again and used against us."

"_Hold on,_" Dacey shouted! "You want to let those Wildling fuckers through the Wall? They've been murdering and raping the North for centuries and now you want to just let them in? Are you out of your Gods damned mind?!"

"No, I'm not. If the Night King and his army reach the Free Folk, they'll all be slaughtered and the Others will raise them back up to join their ranks. Mance Rayder has an army of over one hundred thousand on the other side of the wall. How long do you think we could hold the Wall against a hundred thousand wights?"

The small group at the table, and all the men of the Night's Watch within earshot fell silent when Jon finished talking. After a few minutes, Jon said in a soft, quiet voice, "If the Wall falls, we all fall with it. And the rest of Westeros soon after."

After what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes, Ser Marlon Manderly said, "Do we have any other choice?"

"Yeah," Jon replied. "We do nothing, let them all get turned, cower in our castles and eventually join them."

As another long pause ensued, Jon faintly heard some of his former brothers in the Watch saying things like, "Wildlings, south of the Wall? I never thought I'd see the day." "He's got a point. We've all seen what will happen to those poor buggers if we leave them out there." "Just the thought of letting wildlings through the Wall turns my guts, but I don't think we have a choice." And occasionally he heard, "Fuck em. They've fought us for thousands of years. Let the fuckers die."

Finally, Smalljon said, "I'm not sure whether to believe you or not, Your Grace. I don't have reason to doubt you, not when I can look you in the face and see the haunted look in your eyes. But the other houses in the North won't be swayed so easily. You're going to need proof before they'll be happy about letting the Wildlings through the Wall. Hells, _I'm_ not happy about letting fucking Wildlings through the Walls. But if what you're saying is true, I don't think we're gonna have much choice in the matter."

"I'm not asking you to be happy about it. But it is the decision I'm making as King. Once we're done here, we're going to go out through the gate and ride to Mance's camp. We're going to offer him terms to bring his people through the Wall and settle in the Gift. In return, his men will garrison the castles along the Wall and help fight off the Others."

"I don't like it, Your Grace," Dacey Mormont said. "I don't like it even in the smallest bit. Hells, I'm utterly opposed to it. It goes against everything I've ever believed in. But if what you're saying about the Others and their army is true, I'll support you. Because we don't have a choice in the matter."

"Thank you, Dacey." Turning to Ser Marlon, he saw the Northern Knight with an intense scowl on his face as he thought things through. Finally, he nodded his acceptance.

"Aye, Your Grace. I don't see how we have any other choice."

"Thank you. Get your things ready. Mance's host isn't far, but it'll take us time to reach his tent."

When the small group broke up, Jon made his way to Donal Noye. The one armed blacksmith was, for all intents and purposes, in command at Castle Black until the Officers returned.

"You agree with this, Donal?"

"Don't see as I have much choice Jon. You're King in the North, you're doing what you think is right. But for what it's worth, yes, I agree with what you're doing. I hate it, but I agree with it. It needs to be done."

"Thank you, Lord Commander."

"Lord Commander? Lad, I'm just a blacksmith."

"Maybe. But until there's an election, by order of the King in the North, you're hereby appointed Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"Jon, I don't think the King has that power."

"Honestly, I don't know if I do. But I can't afford the Watch to be leaderless right now. You're the best man here. The best man the Watch has to offer. I need you to lead the Watch."

"I'm not real comfortable with this lad, but I'll do it for now."

"You're a good man Donal Noye. And you'll be a worthy successor for Lord Commander Mormont.'

With that, Jon strode away and saddled his horse in preparation to ride beyond the Wall. As he swung up into the saddle, Ghost padded up beside him, his eyes were bright and eager, almost as if he knew they were going back where he belonged. When Jon rode up to the Gate, he saw a number of guardsmen in Stark livery and carrying the Stark banner. Along side them, were men in Manderly, Mormont and Umber colors all bearing their banners. Once his party was fully assembled, the gates creaked open and they rode up beyond the Wall.

**Baelish**

His solar at the Eryie was practically overflowing with raven scrolls and bits and pieces of parchment and foolscrap brought there covertly by those in his employ. Each and every bit of paper contained information. Most of it was little more than dross, some was powerful enough to bring down a dynasty. And as he had told Cersei Lannister years ago, "Information is power."

The more information he gathered, the more prepared he became for any eventuality. And the scroll in his hand contained information that was extraordinarily valuable. Thankfully, he wasn't totally unprepared for it. But it still upset his plans. Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, had been named King in the North. He had been warned this was a possibility from one of his men in Robb Stark's camp. Now that possibility was a fact.

He had a man in the Night's Watch, a man that he compensated extremely well, that had sent him the scroll. A week ago Lord Umber and Lady Mormont had arrived at Castle Black with a letter from Robb Stark. A letter that legitimized Jon Snow as a Stark and named him King in the North. The day after they arrived, they left again. But not heading south. The entire group had headed North, beyond the Wall. His man mentioned a plan to allow the Wildlings south of the Wall.

It was the other part of the letter that was confusing to Petyr. It was the reason given for allowing the Wildlings south. His man claimed that the Others of ancient legend had returned. That the Night's Watch had seen them beyond the Wall in the Lands of Always Winter. His first thought was that the man had been drunk when he wrote this. His second was that he had gone mad. His third thought was to take the message at face value, whether it was true or not. The Watch, or rather his man, obviously thought it had merit or he wouldn't have included it. His fourth thought was how he could use the information to his advantage.

He was currently Lord of the Fingers, Lord of Harenhall, Lord Regent of the Vale and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. His hold on the Riverlands was tenuous however. The Freys would not be pleased when they learned that he had been named Lord Paramount, and not Lord Walder or Lord Emmon. He would have to tread carefully there and soothe some ruffled Frey feathers. At least until he could arrange an "accident" to usher in a more agreeable Lord of the Twins. What all that meant was that he nominally had control of two of the seven kingdoms. And until this scroll was delivered to him, he had a plan to gain control of the North through Sansa Stark.

Now that plan had been thrown out the Moon Door that young Lord Robert loved so much. With Sansa's brother Jon being named King in the North, the Northmen already had a figure to rally around. He had planned things very carefully. He had given Jeyne Poole to Roose Bolton so he could pass the girl off as Arya Stark and "solidify" his claim to Winterfell. He then would revel the true parentage of the girl to the North, turning all the North against the Boltons because of "their" deception. After that, he would have revealed that Sansa Stark was alive and well, and under his protection. The North would rally around her and be honor bound to support him in exchange for his commitment of the Vale and the Riverlands to restore the North's rightful ruling House.

Obviously that plan wouldn't work now. And the truth about "Arya Stark" would rally the North to Jon instead of to him and Sansa. In short, he needed a new plan. One that allowed him to consolidate his power base. The question now was how best to go about it. Focus on the Vale and Riverlands and let the North wither on the vine? That could cost him the Vale when Sansa learned of it. Throw his support behind the North? That last possibility appealed to him the most. With the North, the Riverlands and the Vale united together, the Stormlands split but largely supporting Stannis and Dorne sitting on the sidelines while "covertly" planning a Targaryen Restoration, the Iron Throne would never be weaker.

But there were issues with that. Chief among them being that the North would not recognize his claim to being Lord Paramount of the Trident. The Starks would almost certainly support the Tullys and would help them retake Riverun. Only slightly less problematic was that supporting Jon Stark as King in the North would do nothing to help him eventually sit on the Iron Throne. Even if the King in the North did support him in his quest, he'd be doing so at the cost of over half of the Seven Kingdoms. The North alone was nearly as large as the other six kingdoms combined, though it was sparsely populated. Add in the Riverlands and the Vale and the Kingdom of the North would easily be the largest power on the continent.

That was not a situation that would be favorable to him. He would need the North to cede the Riverlands and the Vale to him after the war, or he would need to betray the Starks and forcibly remove them. If the Stark boy willingly ceded the most fertile and populous region of his Kingdom and the region with the best heavy cavalry on the planet, he didn't deserve to rule. And if he betrayed the Starks his own reign would be in peril as his word would count for nothing with the other great houses. Whereas his betrayal of the Lannisters would likely be looked on favorably by all but the Westerlands.

Perhaps he should cut his losses with the North and give Sansa to the Lannisters? That would incense the North and parts of the Riverlands as well, but it would solidify his hold on the Riverlands and Robert Arryn was easily pliable enough that he wouldn't risk losing the Vale. Oh, the Royces would object quite forcefully, but they wouldn't go against young Lord Robert if he told them to stand down. And Robert would do whatever he told him to do as long as he thought it was his idea. While that might be the safest option, it was the one he didn't want to implement unless he had to. That would entail a drastic shift in his plans while her brother being named King in the North was a relatively minor bump in the road.

Petyr sat in his chair tapping the raven scroll gently against his chin as he pondered his options. Vaguely, he wondered if he was playing the most complicated Game of Thrones since Aegon united all Seven Kingdoms under his rule. With four different men all claiming to be King of various versions of the Seven Kingdom, there was certainly an added layer of complexity, and danger, to the Game now. As he pondered all his options, he slowly came to the conclusion that, for now, his best position was to take no position. He would continue to solidify his control of the Vale and Riverlands, do his best to undermine the Targaryen's position and make a return far more difficult and publicly support the Iron Throne. He also needed to find a way to finally break Stannis. He had thought the defeat at the Blackwater, and loss of a large portion of the Stormlands support would have broken the man. But he was still sitting defiantly on Dragonstone. Granted, he didn't have much of an army, but that could change quickly should any of the Southern Houses decide that Tommen was too weak to rule. Or should Stannis decide to hire sell swords.

Regardless of what the other players ended up doing, he was playing a very dangerous game. It was a game that would either see him on the Iron Throne, or see his head on a spike. But it was a game he relished. And out of all the various players in the game, the only ones he even remotely respected were Tywin Lannister and Varys. Tywin for his cunning and sheer brutality when it was called for, and Varys for his extensive network and ability to manipulate people. Varys was nearly as good a manipulator as he was. And with his network, it was always a stimulating exercise disguising your true moves from him. And now it was time for his next move in the Game.

**Reek**

His Master was angry. His Master was always angry. And as always when his Master was angry, he had taken that anger out on him. His Master had beaten him and then flayed him on the inside of his thighs and his back. Reek's screams had echoed throughout the dungeons of the Dreadfort. His Master had also taken slivers of weirwood and hammered them under the nails of his remaining fingers and toes. The pain had been so intense that he had begged his Master to cut them off. But his Master had refused.

Instead his Master had terrified him even further. After leaving him sobbing, chained to the cross in the dungeon, weirwood sticking out of his fingers and toes, blood flowing freely from his freshly flayed flesh, he had returned and as gently as possible, removed the weirwood from his body and bound his wounds in fresh, clean cloth. And he had done so without saying a word. After that, he had personally half carried him up the stairs, with every step bringing fresh agony from his tortured legs and feet, and brought him to his own chambers. And waiting in his Master's room, was a large tub filled with hot, scented water.

As he Master looked purposefully at him, Ramsey said, "Take off your clothes, Reek."

He knew better than to question his Master. Whatever his Master commanded, he would do. So, as quickly as his mangled limbs and hands would allow him, he removed the soiled and foul smelling rags that his Master allowed him to wear.

"Get in the Tub, Reek."

Reek was confused. He hadn't been allowed to bathe in, well, he wasn't sure how long it had been. His stench was meant as a constant reminder to him of his place in his Master's service.

Seeing his hesitation and confusion, his Master gestured again at the tub and said, "Reek, I want you to get in the water. You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?"

"No, Master," he replied. Shaking in fear, Reek awkwardly climbed into the wooden tub, his pain wracked and broken body protesting all the while. The hot water brought fresh agony to his new wounds. His flayed flesh felt like it was burning as the hot water soaked through the bandages. His blood started to stain the water pink, while the dirt and dung that clung to his pale and drawn skin and white hair warred with the blood to change the clear water to black.

As his twisted and bent body settled into the tub, his Master picked up a cloth, soaked it in the water and gently began to wash the filth from his body. While his Master gently washed him, he began to speak.

"Reek, I need you to pay very close attention to me. I need you to do something for me. Something that will be very difficult for you."

"What, Master?"

"I need you to become someone. Someone very different from yourself."

What? His Master had spent endless amounts of time to teach him that he was Reek. And now he was telling him to be something else?

"Ha..Have I disappointed you, Master? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Reek sobbed out. He couldn't take more punishment.

"No, Reek. You've done exactly what I asked of you. But now I need you to do something very difficult. I need you to become Theon Greyjoy."

Reek's mind froze and his body stiffened. No, he wasn't Theon Greyjoy. He was Reek. Only Reek. Never Theon.

In fear, he stuttered, "I'm, I'm, I'm n...n...n...not Theon. I'm Reek. C...Can't be Theon. Only Reek."

"Shhhhh, shhhhh. It's okay Reek. You're not actually going to be Theon Greyjoy. I only want you to _pretend_ to be Theon. You'll still be Reek. But I need you to make other people think you are Theon Greyjoy."

Jerkily nodding his head, Reek signaled his acceptance. He couldn't refuse. He couldn't take anymore pain. His Master had promised him that he would eventually beg to be killed and Reek was so very close to that point. This could be what pushed him over that edge. He didn't know how to pretend to be Theon Greyjoy. He was Reek. His Master was still explaining what he needed him to do while continuing to wash his abused body, but what was left of Reek's mind was still reeling. He knew he would have to please his Master. It was that or be punished severely for his failure.

Days later, as his Master's party approached the remains of Moat Cailin, his Master told him it was time for him to play his part. Reek was terrified. How would anyone ever believe he was Theon Greyjoy? He was Reek. He would never be believed, despite his Master dressing him in armor engraved with the Kraken of House Greyjoy and giving him the sword that once belonged to Theon Greyjoy. His body was so broken and weak he could barely stand under the weight of the armor and sword. His limbs were bent and twisted to the point that it was almost impossible to ride the horse his Master had told him to ride, never mind actually swinging the sword he was given. Then to add in the sheer agony it was causing his tormented and destroyed body trying to sit on the horse properly. Only a fool would believe he was actually Theon.

When he finally reached the ruined walls and towers of Moat Cailin it was all he could do to keep from weeping from the constant excruciating pain radiating from every point of his body. But he still had a role to play. His Master told him to think of it as a game. His Master liked to play games. The games never ended well for anyone that he played them with though.

When a voice hailed him from the Drunkard's Tower asking who was approaching, he had to force himself to wrench his gaze up and look at the guard in the eye. It was an action that would have instantly infuriated his Master and caused him to remove more bits and pieces from him. But now, it was what his Master wanted him to do.

In a shaking voice, Reek responded, "I'm Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands. I'm here to parley with your commander on behalf of Lord Bolton, Warden of the North."

"Theon Greyjoy is dead. His sister told us he was dead. That means either you or her is a liar. I know Asha Greyjoy. I don't know Theon. Why should I believe you over her?"

Reek started shaking in fear. He was failing in what his Master ordered him to do. If he was lucky, his Master would only flay him more. He had to convince them to let him through. It was at that moment, when he was practically shaking in fear at what his Master would do to him, when something seemed to break free deep inside Reek's mind. From the deepest, darkest corner of his mind what was left of Theon Greyjoy broke free of the chains that Reek had put around him in a desperate act of self preservation. In that brief moment of clarity, Theon knew he was broken irreparably. That he was both Theon and Reek, despite what his "Master" told him. Deep within him, he could already feel the pathetic creature that was Reek begging to be let back in control, that it was the only way he could survive. But for now, Theon was able to beat him back and remain in control.

In a much stronger voice than that used by Reek, Theon responded, "I am Theon Greyjoy. I was captured by the Boltons when they took Winterfell from me. Let me speak to your Commander and I'll see you all get safe passage back to the Iron Islands. What have you got to lose? One man against all the Ironborn here, what chance would I have?"

As the guards holding the arrows on him considered what he said, Theon thought to himself that he would have even less chance than they knew after all that Ramsey had done to him. He was so weak that he could barely grasp a sword, let alone swing one. Above all, at this moment, he still had to pretend to be Ramsey's creature, Reek. Otherwise the best he could ever hope for was dying along with the rest of the Ironborn when Ramsey assaulted the remains of the fortress. And knowing his "Master," his death was sure to be long and exceedingly painful.

Eventually, the guard jerked his head towards one of the two remaining towers and said, "He's in the Gatehouse Tower. No tricks or it'll be the last thing you ever do."

Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Theon nudged his horse forward and had to stifle a groan of agony as the horse's movement brought a fresh wave of pain washing over him. Within himself, the side of him that was Reek begged to take back over, telling him that his Master would be very angry if he found out. Reek was terrified of what his Master would do to him. Theon knew very well what Ramsey would do and told Reek to shut up. But he was beginning to panic now. He couldn't keep Reek at bay for long, and Reek could never do what Ramsey had ordered. Theon had to do it. But he had to do it quickly before he collapsed back into being Reek.

When Theon reached the Gatehouse Tower he painfully dismounted from his horse, wincing from his numerous injuries. As he hobbled into the remains of the tower, he saw the men there staring in horror at him. He had been abused and tortured so often and to such extremes that he appeared to have aged forty years.

Making his way up to the small group of men in the tower, Theon asked them in a now raspy voice, "Who's your commander?"

"Who's asking," replied one of the men?

"Theon Greyjoy. Who are you?"

"Dagon Codd. Commander's Ralf Kenning. Not that he'll be around much longer."

"And where is he?"

Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Dagon Codd said, "In there. Dying from a fucking poisoned arrow. Fucking Cranogmen."

Nodding jerkily, Theon walked as best he could into the room where the Ironborn commander lay. The stench coming from the man was worse than even he had smelled before Ramsey bathed him. The man's wound had obviously turned and the smell of rotting, putrid flesh filled the room. Gingerly kneeling by the bed, Theon looked at the man and knew that he was looking at a dead man. And judging from the man's eyes, he knew it as well.

With an effort, Theon pulled out Ralf's knife from the belt by his bed and held it up for the man to see. When Ralf saw it, he nodded weakly and closed his eyes, ready for the mercy stroke. Putting the knife against the man's throat, Theon muttered, "What is dead may never die," and as quickly as he was able, slit Ralf's throat and watched the black poisoned blood ooze out thickly through the wound.

Painfully climbing back to his feet, Theon limped back out to the men in the remains of the Great Hall. As they looked at him, he saw a slight approving look in their eyes. While they would never admit it, they all knew that Theon had given their commander a merciful death instead of allowing him to linger. That small act earned him an equally small amount of respect from the remaining warriors.

After giving the men Ramsey's terms, that they lay down their arms and he would feed them and give them safe passage back to the Iron Islands, he stepped back and let them talk. Of them all, only Dagon Codd objected. Shit, Theon thought. The man smelled a trap. If he was allowed to rally the men, his own life wouldn't be worth the shit on the bottom of his boots.

But before Theon could even open his mouth to try and convince them, an axe slammed down into Dagon's head and split his head like a ripe melon. Looking at the man that had just killed Dagon, he asked, "Food and safe passage home in exchange for our surrender, right?"

Replying quickly as he felt Theon slipping and Reek returning, Theon nodded his head and said, "Yes. Lay down your arms and you'll be fed and escorted to the coast to go home."

Nodding their heads, the men dropped their weapons and began making their way out of Moat Cailin towards the waiting Bolton force where they were swiftly gathered together and searched to make sure they had honored their agreement. As Theon watched, he hung his head in shame. He knew, in his gut, that Ramsey had no intention of ever allowing these men to leave the Neck alive. But he had no other options. It was do what Ramsey wanted or suffer the consequences. As the last of the Ironborn filed out of the ancient fortress, Theon broke down and cried bitterly before surrendering himself to Reek once again.


	7. Wolves of the North-7

**Author's Note:** Though this fanfic primarily draws on book cannon, some elements are taken from the show. The description of Tormund Giantsbane is one such instance. As a character, he is based on the books, visually however, I am describing him as he appeared in _Game of Thrones_. I've also elected to keep him more in line with the Show's age, assuming he was late 30s, early 40s.

**Smalljon**

Fuck it was cold up here. He felt the wind whip into the tunnel through the Wall the moment the gate was opened on the north side. So cold it made his balls ache. How did those mad fuckers manage to live up here? The wildlings must be fucking mad to want to live beyond the Wall. Of course, if what Jon said was true, they now desperately wanted to live south of it. Probably the first smart thing any wildling had ever done.

He still couldn't believe he was doing this. Going beyond the Wall to _talk_ to wildlings. Ever since he was a boy, he'd believed that the only good wildling was a dead wildling. Hells, he still believed that. His King may be willing to give the fuckers the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn't so ready to let bygones be bygones. These gods damned wildlings better have one fucking good story to tell if they wanted him to willingly let them through the Wall and settle in the very lands they had raided, reaved and raped for generations.

The King was riding at the head of the small party. He was still mainly dressed in black. The only thing he wore that wasn't black was his cloak. As the King put it, "It was the only thing he had left that still fit from before he joined the Watch."

When Jon exited the King's Tower that morning, his hair had been freshly trimmed and his beard wasn't as unkempt as it had been the night before. He supposed that the King had wanted to look as Kingly as possible for his mission this morning. Not that he understood why he'd even bothered. They were going to talk to fucking wildlings. It's not like they gave a shit about things like that. Every wildling he'd ever come across had only cared about three things: keeping their weapons sharp, their bellies full and their bodies warm.

Fucking hells. There was a group of Wildlings up ahead. Including two giants. Instinctively, his hand dropped to the pommel of his great sword. Just in case. Glancing to his right out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dacey doing the same thing and tightly gripping that axe she was so fond of. Ahead of his and in front of the giants was a man on a garon with a beard of flaming red that would have impressed even his own father, a man known for his great shaggy beard.

As they approached the group the man leading the wildling called out in an exceptionally strong voice, "So, the crow returns, eh?! I knew you couldn't stay away for long Jon Snow. Tired of kneeling already?"

"Something like that Tormund," replied Jon.

"I see you're not all in black. The crows throw you out and you've come to beg to join us again?"

"Not exactly. It's a long story, and one best heard sitting down."

"You've got a weight on you lad. I can read it in your eyes. Well, Mance wants a word. Not sure he wants one with _you_ though. Wants to run a sword through you maybe."

"Once he hears what I've got to say, he'll be glad I'm the one he's talking to."

"You say so. What about that lot with you?"

"They're with me. They're here on behalf of three of the Great Houses of the North."

Saying that, Jon pointed to each of them and continued, "Marlon Manderly, Smalljon Umber and Dacey Mormont."

When Tormund heard the names, his face got serious. "You're a fucking Mormont?!" he asked Dacey. "Like the last Lord Commander?"

"My uncle," she replied.

"You're uncle slaughtered us like pigs!"

"And what have your people done on Bear Island? Come ashore to share gardening tips?"

Tormund through his head back and laughed heartily. "Thought you southorns didn't have spearwives Snow! What I wouldn't give for a woman with a fire in her belly like that!"

Glancing at Dacey, Jon laconically replied, "Better be glad you're too old for her then Tormund. She'd probably cut your balls off with that axe of hers and make you eat them for breakfast."

That set the wildling raider into another bout of laughter. Once he finally got his laughter under control, he said, "You fought us hard here. Harder than that fool Styr thought you would. He die?"

Nodding his head, Jon replied "Inside the Castle. Killed him myself. Never did like him."

"Me either. Fool thought he could just waltz right through you crows and throw open the gates and let us all through and all we'd have to do is sing while we marched."

Just then, Jon's horse half hoped over a fallen log and Jon winced and grabbed his leg when the horse landed. Tormund, and everyone in the party from both sides, noticed it immediately.

"What happened to your leg?"

"An arrow. I think it was from Ygritte."

Chuckling, Tormund said, "Women. One minute they're loving you, the next they're trying to fill you with arrows. What happened to her?"

"She's dead. I burned her body myself."

"Shame. She was a woman. If I was younger... Well, no use crying over her now."

Pulling a wine skin from his saddlebags, Tormund proclaimed, "To Ygritte, kissed by fire!" And then he proceeded to drink deeply before handing the skin to the King who repeated the phrase and if possible, drank even deeper.

"Was it you who killed her?"

"No. I don't know who did. I found her with a knife buried in her chest and her bow in her hand."

"Well, a better death than some."

"Aye."

After that, the two men lapsed into an almost companionable silence. Who was this man that they had proclaimed King? Jon and the wildling seemed to be almost friendly with each other. This was all very odd to him. Hells, the fact that he was riding north of the Wall was strange all by itself. That he was riding to offer _peace_ to fucking wildlings was damn near mind blowing.

As they crested what passed for a ridge, the Wildling camp appeared before them. The sight caused Smalljon to suck in his breath for the merest fraction of a moment before his mind caught up with his eyes. The Wildling camp was large. Far larger than he had ever expected it to be. If anyone had told him that there were this many wildlings beyond the wall, he would have laughed them out of the room.

But as he looked over the camp, he began to notice that not everything was as it seemed. For as large as the camp was, there was no organization to it, no plan, no defenses. Tents and lean-tos seemed to be set up wherever their owners decided to stop walking with little regard for keeping paths open between tents or for how they could defend the camp. There were piss pits dug haphazardly next to almost every tent instead of a single latrine dug outside the camp. Horses, goats, sheep and pigs wandered throughout the camp. Gods, if he had a thousand heavy horse he could sweep through the wildlings like a heated blade through warm butter. Whoever this "King-Beyond-The-Wall" was, he better thank the gods above that they were only coming to talk, not to attack.

As they entered the camp, most people ignored them and went about their day. But enough gave them hostile looks that Smalljon's anxiety levels were steadily climbing. On any given day, he wouldn't have cared. One Northern warrior, properly armed and armored, could kill a dozen or more wildlings without any real trouble. But here, there were just so _many_ of them that they'd get swamped by sheer numbers.

Some of the people were also openly glaring at the banners that were flying above them. His and Dacey's in particular. There was certainly no love lost between the wildlings and the Umbers or Mormonts. They hated us, and we hated them, Smalljon thought to himself. At least the wildlings had good reason to recognize their banners. As the two Houses most exposed to their raids we did tend to react strongly to them. The numbers of wildlings that had been killed and their bodies hung over the Wall as a warning to the rest had to number in the thousands over the centuries. That's what was making this so damn difficult. All he ever knew was fighting the wildlings. Now he was being told to make peace with them. If Jon hadn't been Robb's brother, he wasn't sure he could go through with this.

As they neared a large white tent atop a small rise in the ground, he noticed a man in a black and red cloak with grayish brown hair standing outside it, seemingly waiting for them. He was surrounded by a group of wildlings that were as diverse as they terrifying. One was a short, broad man wearing bones for armor and what looked like a giant's skull as helm. There was also a woman who had a pole in her left hand with a dog's head mounted atop it. These were the people that Jon wanted to let through the Wall? What in the seven hells was the man thinking? There was no way that this would end well for anyone.

As they approached the tent, arguments were shouted back and forth between everyone. It looked like Jon and the wildling that had escorted them (Tormund? Was that his name? Fuck if he knew.) were mostly arguing together against the other three. Two of those three had practically drawn steel on the King already while the man in the red and black cloak seemed like he was trying to make up his mind.

Eventually, the man in the cloak shouted, "Enough! We wanted to talk, they're here to talk. Jon Snow came in good faith. We'll hear what he has to say then decide whether he leaves the camp alive or not."

That seemed to at least shut everyone up for the moment. Which, judging by the way the rest of the camp sounded, was an accomplishment in and of itself. When they entered the tent, Smalljon's breath was taken away by the sight of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, wildling or not. She was dressed in pure white with long honey colored hair, a slender body, full bosom and blue, almost grey eyes. She was enough to make the blood of any man race through his veins. He didn't realize that he'd been staring until Dacey, who was right behind him, practically punched him in the back to get him to move forward into the tent. For fuck's sake, what was wrong with him? He'd seen beautiful women before. Shaking his head gruffly, he moved into the tent and sat on the stool next to Jon while Dacey sat on the other side of Jon with Marlon next to her.

Smalljon sat and watched as the King in the North and the King-beyond-the-Wall sized each other up. This was likely the first time since the Age of Heroes that both Kings had been in the same room and hadn't tried to kill each other. At least they hadn't tried yet. As the two Kings talked, Smalljon tuned out most of it. It had more to do with Jon's time in the Watch than anything else. His attention was fixed on the girl in the tent. He'd heard her called Val. While he looked at her, he started to wonder if she would be as impressive out of her clothes as she was in them. It was only when the two Kings in the tent turned to the real reason they were talking that Smalljon finally pulled his attention away from the beauty before him. Ah well, duty calls.

**Mance**

He almost found himself liking Jon Snow, despite him being a turncloak bastard who had betrayed him. Which presented a bit of a problem for him. The boy had only been doing what he had been ordered to do when he joined up with his camp and then later betrayed them to the Watch. But he'd lied to him and by extension, the Free Folk as a whole. And to the Free Folk, that was a worse crime than just about anything else. North of the Wall, a man's word had to stand for something. Any man who failed to live up to what he'd promised wasn't worth the food to keep him alive. So those men, and women, were killed out of hand. For him to keep the respect of the Free Folk, he really had to kill the boy. But gods damn him to all the seven hells, he liked the lad.

Jon hadn't tried to dodge what he did once since Tormund brought him to the camp. Instead, he'd simply said that he'd been ordered to do it, so he'd done it. Of course, the boy hadn't been _that_ great a liar. He'd seen through most his charade almost immediately when he'd first joined them. But Mance felt sure that buried deep within Jon, some part of him actually wanted to join with him, and that not everything he'd said was a lie. Not that it would matter to those around him. He'd given the lad a chance to prove himself, and he'd failed. And now that he'd returned the clan chieftains, Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead in particular, were being vocal about wanting to gut the lad. Only Tormund seemed willing to give him another chance.

He was still unsure why Jon had come back beyond the Wall to begin with though. While it was true he wanted to parley with the Watch, Tormund hadn't even had a chance to deliver his message to the Watch yet. Jon's party had found Tormund's before he'd even reached the Wall. That made it curious to him. And things that were curious were things that were worth exploring. So he made a show of being angry, one that wasn't entirely faked, then sat and argued and talked with Jon about what he'd done while he'd been in his camp and on his climb over the Wall.

That was when Val had interrupted and asked about Jarl. Jon at least had the good sense to look saddened when he told his goodsister that Jarl had fallen from the Wall when the patch of ice they were on had given way. Jon had sadly told her that if the men could be spared, they'd likely find his body below the Wall outside Greyguard. Val had thanked him, then turned back to caring for her sister. Then there was that giant of an Umber with Jon. Mance would have to have been blind not to notice the looks that the Umber fellow was giving Val. Or how he perked up when she spoke and how he paid attention to the reply. Something to watch there. It could be trouble down the road or it could be something to use to his advantage. Only time would tell there.

After that, they moved onto the real reason why Jon was here. To parley. Unlike most in his camp, Mance understood what the banners flying above the small party meant. As a Man of the Night's Watch, Jon was not entitled to fly the banner of any House or wear any sigil. Yet he had approached them under a Stark banner. And the lad was not dressed all in black. He had a pretty good idea what that meant, but he wanted to hear Jon say it aloud. Just as he thought that, Jon started to speak again.

"Mance, you were raised south of the Wall," he began. At hearing that, Tormund, Harma and Rattleshirt all bristled slightly. The fact that someone raised in the south and that had been a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch had become King-beyond-the-Wall still rankled them a bit. It was something Mance knew they would always hold against him. Not that it mattered. They had all agreed to follow him because he was the only one who had a plan to get them south.

Continuing on, Jon said, "You know what our banners mean. The fact that I rode to your camp under the banner of House Stark won't be lost on you." It was at this point that Jon took a deep breath and looked down at his lap before looking back up with a hard glint in his eyes and saying, "By decree of my brother, Robb Stark, the King in the North, I've been legitimized and named as a Stark. He did this so that I could be his heir."

It was here that Jon's voice broke for a moment before he could continue. And when he did, the voice that came from the boy was far different. It was no longer the voice of a lad who had only seen one winter. It was the voice of a very hard and dangerous man. Something that everyone in the tent immediately picked up on.

In a voice harder than Valyrian Steel, Jon said, "But my brother was murdered. He was betrayed by some of his own bannermen and killed while at a wedding. And now the Throne of Winter is mine. I'm here to make peace between our peoples so I can deal with the traitorous scum that killed Robb. And I know what's coming for us. I've seen them, just as you have. The North can't fight the Free Folk, the Southorns, and the dead. So for the sake of my people, I'm willing to make peace."

Mance actually rocked back on his seat at hearing that. He had figured that Jon had been named a Stark, but hearing that he was actually King in the North was a shock. And it was an even bigger shock hearing that he was willing to make peace with the Free Folk. Part of him wanted to dance with joy then break down sobbing in relief. But another part of him whispered that caution would be needed. He had to negotiate terms that would be suitable for all the tribes and clans following him. And they were a diverse lot. Well, perhaps that was getting too much into the details right now. What he needed to know was what Jon was offering. Because some things, he could not accept.

Leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees, he asked Jon, "What are you offering?"

"Your people will be allowed south of the Wall. I'll allow them to settle on and farm the Gift. In return, your people will agree not to raid, rape or reave any of the lands south of the Wall. The Northern Houses will agree not to attack your people in exchange. The Free Folk will be required to garrison the castles along the Wall and to fight the dead when they come. Many of those castles are in very poor condition. They'll need to be repaired or rebuilt to be suitable to live in.

"Every chieftain in your camp will surrender one son, or daughter if they don't have any sons, to be held as a hostage to ensure their clan's good behavior. Additionally, you and your people will surrender half your gold and silver to the Night's Watch.

"If called upon, your people will assist mine in fighting and killing the Northern Traitors and any Southorn armies that try and come North. These are my terms. You can either accept them and come safely south of the Wall, or you can reject them and stay here to become fodder for the Night King and his Army."

Mance dropped his head and slowly shook it before replying. When he did he said, "Lad, you know I can't accept that. The Free Folk would tear out my guts and make me eat them if I did that. You're demanding too much and offering too little."

Turning to Tormund Mance said, "Go get the horn. We'll wait here."

Nodding in reply, Tormund got up and left to go to his tent. While he was gone, a deadly quiet ruled the air inside the tent. No one said a word, instead the tense silence hung heavily over them. The only noise that could be heard was the crackling of the fire near the center of the tent.

When Tormund reentered the tent, he carried an object wrapped in furs in his hands. Handing it Mance, he took his seat to Mance's right again and shot an intense look at Jon, silently imploring the King in the North to listen to what Mance had to say. The look was not lost on Mance. Gods, Tormund really did like the poor bugger.

Weighing the fur wrapped horn in his hands, Mance looked down at it gravely before slowly and almost reverently unwrapping it. Holding the unwrapped black horn up, the torches in the tent began to reflect off the gold bands that were wrapped around it. Looking Jon in the eye, Mance said:

"Do you know what this is lad? This is the Horn of Joramun. Also called the Horn of Winter. With one blast, this horn could level the Wall and then what's to stop me from bringing my people south? Either you let my people south of the Wall, or I tell Tormund here to blow his heart out."

On hearing that, Jon looked at Mance with a sly look in his eyes and said, "No, you won't. You need the Wall between your people and the Others. If you blow that Horn, what's going to stop them from marching right on south and slaughtering you as they go? So you won't blow that Horn Mance. Not now, not ever."

"Aye, they'll still come. But I'll buy my people months to live. Years even, maybe. Why shouldn't I blow it if it buys my people years to live?"

"Because you don't want the _chance_ of your people living for years. You want to _know_ that your people will survive for generations. And the only way that happens, is if the Wall still stands. Now, if that's all you have to offer, a threat to blow down the Wall with a magic horn, which may or may not work, then I'll lead my men back behind the Wall and we'll prepare as best we can to face the Long Night without you.

"Call my naive if you want to Mance, but I don't believe that you actually want Tormund to put those lungs of his to the test and blow that Horn. What if it doesn't do what you think it does? Then your bluff is just that. A bluff with nothing to back it up. And what if it does do what you think it will? Then there's nothing between your people and the Others.

"So, now that I'm calling your bluff, what are you really after? Because we both know that you don't want to fight your way south of the Wall. It would cost you and me too many men and women. Warriors that will be needed to fight the Long Night. So what's it going to be? Make a deal that gets your people south, or wait here on the wrong side of the Wall for the Others to come and slaughter you all?"

"No, Jon. That's the wrong question. What are you offering to keep me from blowing this horn? Or from sending my people to fight our way through?"

"Phrase it anyway you want. But if you and your people want to get south of the Wall, we'll have to make a deal."

"Alright. You let us south, I'll turn the Horn over to you, no more threat of knocking the Wall down. And I'll ask the Free Folk not to raid."

"Mance, you know that's not enough. You turn over the Horn, and the Night's Watch and the various Houses of the North will send builders, carpenters, stone masons and blacksmiths to the various Castles to help your people rebuild them so that they're in a fit state to live in during the winter and to fight from during the Long Night.

"Have each Chieftan surrender a son or daughter as a hostage, and my bannermen will treat them as they would any other Highborn hostage. No chains, no dungeons, no being locked in a cell. They'll be taught to read and write and how to fight. After the Long Night, they'll be returned to their families, unharmed. But if any of their Clan's breaks their vow not to raid, reave or rape the North, they'll be executed.

"Surrender half your gold and silver to the Nights Watch, and they'll use the money to purchase arms and armor, lumber and stone, food and drink. Those items will be used to arm and armor your people to fight the Long Night, to repair and rebuild the castles along the Wall, and to fill the larders of those castles so that we can all eat while we hold off the army of the dead.

"And if called, your people will answer the call to fight any Southorn armies that march North to attack us."

Shaking his head again Mance said, "No lad. That won't work at all. I'll agree to turn over the Horn of Joramun to you in return for aid in rebuild and repairing the castles on the Wall. But in no uncertain terms will I let you use my people as soldiers to fight your wars in the South."

"Fine. I won't ask you to fight my wars so long as your people agree to return north of the Wall after the Long Night. If any clan wishes to remain south of the Wall however, they'll have to swear an Oath of Fealty to me and abide by the laws of the North. The clan Chieftan will be made a Lord, given a keep and his people allowed to settle the lands around that Holdfast. But that clan will be required to fight for me should I ever call my banners and they will have to obey all the Laws of the North."

That last comment made some heads jerk upright. Particularly those of that Umber fellow and the Mormont girl. So. That was apparently something that the King in the North hadn't discussed with his Lords. Huh. That was interesting to learn as well. This King in the North had some balls on him to make decisions like that. And it was a pretty big concession.

"Alright," replied Mance. "That will be up to each individual and clan. If they want to stay in the south and become a kneeler, they can. I won't stop them. But unless and until they decide that, the Free Folk won't bow to your laws lad. We'll agree not to raid the Northern Lords. But that's the extent of it."

"I'll take that. I know that's about the best I can hope for on that count. What about the rest?"

"We'll talk. Those are decisions that need to be made by the all the Chieftains together, not by me alone. It's going to be a long day and night Jon Stark."

Turning to Val Mance said, "Goodsister, will you please bring some ale along with some of that bread and salt. We've got a long discussion ahead of us."

**Olyvar**

_Where is it? Where is it?_ It had to be here! Olyvar was frantically ransacking Ryman's rooms in The Twins looking for King Robb's crown. He knew it had to be here. He had heard Ryman boasting of how he had his whores wear it while he fucked them. He liked to call the whore he was with "The Queen of Whores." He didn't have long to find it before Ryman returned.

Where in the seven hells was it? He had torn apart the chests and dressers in here and still couldn't find it. It may only have been made of beaten bronze and iron, but it had still been worn by a King. And that made it valuable. Surely Ryman would take care not to misplace it? So where the fuck was it? He was about to tear his hair out looking for it.

As he bent over to rummage through the discarded pile of clothes on the floor, out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of light as the sun coming in through the window reflected off of something. Dropping to his knees and peering under the bed, he let out a gasp and with trembling hands, slowly reached out and picked up King Robb's crown. He'd found it. Finally. As he reverently held the crown in his hands, he felt a tear fall from his eyes.

Fuck his Gods damned family. He had been treated like shit ever since Robb's wedding to Jeyne Westerling, all because he wanted to remain by his King's side as his squire. And ever since he'd learned about what his family was planning for Lord Tully's wedding, he'd been kept separate and under guard because they thought he would warn them. They were right. He would have betrayed his family if it meant doing what was right and honorable. It was only desperation on his part and sloppiness on the part of the guard that saw him break free.

Looking down at his chest, he saw the Twin Towers of his house on his doublet and was sickened by them. He had worn his family's sigil with pride and honor. But after what his gods damned father had done, he would never wear these colors again. His House used to be respected. Now, anyone seeing him was as like to spit on him as greet him courteously. And that went for highborn and small folk alike.

He had heard some of the men around the castle talking about how Robb had named his bastard half brother his heir. Robb had often talked of his brother, about how close they had been and how his brother had chosen to join the Night's Watch. If the Gods be good, he'd get to meet that brother soon. He was determined to take Robb's crown to his brother. He would head first to Winterfell, then to Castle Black to find him.

Well, it was time for him leave. He had what he came for. Now he just needed to get out of the Twins and head north. The last he had heard, the Ironborne still held Moat Cailin, so he would need to find a way past it. He had heard that there were paths and trails through the swamp to the east of the ancient fortress. Perhaps a single man could slip through where an army would drown? Only one way to find out.

As Olyvar slipped out of Ryman's room and made his way to the stables, he stopped and thought for a moment. He needed coin and food. He had a small purse on him with a few Dragons and Stags in it. He knew where more was, but by the time he got there and back, the alarm would likely have been raised. He'd just have to stretch what he had then. Food was just slightly more vital though. Alright, a short detour to the kitchens to grab what he could through in a sack, then he would be on his way.

Bluffing about his business to the kitchen staff, Olyvar was able to quickly fill a sack with a haunch of mutton, two pies, some venison and a small sack of apples. Throwing the now full sack over his shoulder, he hurried to the stables to make good his escape. The Gods must have been with him as he made it there without trouble. While he saddled his horse, he glanced down the stable and there, at the end of the stables, was Robb's horse. For a brief moment, he considered taking Robb's destrier, but soon decided against it. His own courser would be a better choice for the journey he had to make.

As the sun began to set in the west, Olyvar pulled on a heavy traveling cloak with a large cowl to hide his face, mounted his courser, and rode out of The Twins forever. Once again the Gods were with him as no one challenged him or saw him leave. Taking one last look at what had been his home, he was revolted by what it now represented. The bile rose in his throat as his gaze dropped to the northern battlements. For there, suspended in a cage for all the world to see and for the crows to feast on, was what remained of King Robb's body with Grey Wind's head still obscenely attached to it. "A traitor's fate," his father called it. What would his father say, he wondered, when he realized that to the North, he was the traitor? What fate would he expect then?

With his eyes once again facing the North, Olyvar spurred his horse on and left the Twins behind. When he reached the King in the North, he would ask the King's permission to abandon his family name and to found a new House in the North. Mayhaps he could find a nice Northern girl to wed and establish himself there. Smalljon Umber had talked often of his sisters, and he and the Smalljon had been friendly in a way.

While Olyvar dreamed of the House he would found, the woman he would marry and the sons he would raise, the miles fell away behind him. Staying off the roads, he slipped through the brush and forests just out of sight. Twice he saw parties of men sent out by his father, likely out searching for him. His father may be a coward, but he was no fool. His taking of Robb's Crown would have telegraphed his intentions to everyone in The Twins. Ravens had probably already flown to Moat Cailin, the Dreadfort and every castle between here and the Neck. He had considered trying for Raventree Hall, but given what his bloody father had done, the Blackwoods would have little reason to trust him. In the end, he decided it would be safest for him to stay out of sight and raise as little suspicion as possible.

Six days after leaving The Twins, he found tracks. Tracks that were traveling in the same direction. Whoever it was, they had tried to conceal their numbers by walking in single file, but here and there a footprint didn't line up just right or the gait seemed to falter a bit. Looking about carefully, he casually dropped a hand to the sword attached to his saddle and loosened the blade in the scabbard. Should he need his sword, he would need it in one damn big hurry with no time to mess about.

Riding forward cautiously, he saw his horse's ears suddenly prick and before he could quiet his mount, it let out a soft whinny. _Fuck_, he thought. _If they're bandits I'm fucked and if they're from my father I'm dead._ As he reached down to scratch his horse's neck and try to quiet him, an arrow flew by his face and with a solid _thwack_ embedded itself in a tree right next to him.

"The next one flies true lad. That was just a warning," a voice said from somewhere off to his left.

Raising his hands slowly away from his weapons, he slowly turned towards the voice that had called out. Replying to it, he said, "I don't want any trouble. I'm just passing through."

"People who don't want trouble use the road. People who are _avoiding_ trouble ride up here. If you were just passing through as you claim, you'd be down on the road minding your own business, not looking all about to see how many men are around you. And the answer is eighty lad. So don't even think of trying something stupid, you'll be cut down before you could make it five paces."

Cursing under his breath at being caught checking for others, Olyvar nodded and said, "Alright, have it your way. I am avoiding trouble. You say you have eighty men around me. Yet not one shows himself. I think you're bluffing. A force of eighty wouldn't hide from one man."

Chuckling, the voice told him, "From one man, no we wouldn't hide. From a scout, we surely would. You're wearing fine clothes, relatively well groomed for a man who's been traveling, mounted on a well bred horse and carrying castle forged steel. You're either High Born or a scout. And I'll lay my money on high born."

_That voice! I know that voice!_ Olyvar thought to himself. But from where? Suddenly it dawned him. "Lord Glover! I knew I recognized your voice. You have nothing to fear from me My Lord. We fight for the same cause, you and I. I fought beside King Robb at the Whispering Wood and at the Crag."

Slowly pulling the cowl back from his head where it had been keeping him mostly dry in the light drizzle, he showed himself to the Lord of Deepwood Motte. Hearing a grunt of recognition, Galbart Glover stepped out from he was concealed and strode up to Olyvar. But there was no warmth in his eyes and his hand never left the hilt of his sword. While all around him, bowmen silently appeared, all with arrows knocked and drawn.

With iron in his voice, Lord Glover said, "Get down off that horse you Frey bastard. One small move that we don't like and you'll end up so full of arrows you'll be mistaken for a hedgehog."

His fucking family. Olyvar had been loyal to King Robb, yet his family was likely to get him killed because of their actions. Easing down to the ground, he told Lord Glover, "Lord Glover, look in my left saddle bag. You'll see the reason I'm heading North. I had no part in what happened to the King. I tried to warn him. My fucking family kept me under guard in my rooms so I couldn't warn His Grace."

"I don't fucking care. You're a Frey. The Frey's betrayed us. The Freys murdered us. We all heard about what happened. Some of these men were there and only got away by chance. So you can save your lies. I'll save the King the trouble and behead you mysel..."

Galbart's voice trailed off as he saw what was in Olyvar's saddlebags. Reaching in, he pulled out King Robb's crown. His brother's crown now.

"I was riding North to bring that to Robb's brother. He's the King now and that crown is rightfully his. I had nothing to do with the Red Wedding. I despise my family for what they've done, and I won't be associated with it."

Without ever taking his eyes off the crown that he held in his hands, Galbart replied, "That makes no difference lad. You're still a Frey, and no Frey will ever be trusted by another Northman. We're all trying to get home. You'll come with us under guard as a prisoner and I'll let King Jon deal with you."

Turning to his men he told them, "Strip his arms and armor, check for any hidden blades too. Then tie him up so he can't run off and bring him into the camp. We leave for home tomorrow."

It had taken nearly a month, but they had finally reached Winterfell. A month of dodging roving patrols of men from the Riverlands, the Westerlands and the Reach. A month spent crawling through the mud and ooze of the Neck. A month of hard night rides over the Barrows to avoid any prying eyes.

And in all that time, never did any of the Northmen change their attitude to him in the slightest. To them, he was nothing more than a vermin to be exterminated. His family named condemned him to death, regardless of any past actions. It was unfair. He had never once betrayed Robb. Hells, he had betrayed his own family in trying to bring Robb's crown north. But none of that mattered to those cold hard bastards from the North. He was Frey, and thus was damned.

Riding through the gates of the massive fortress, Olyvar marveled at eighty foot tall outer walls and the even taller hundred foot tall inner wall. How anyone could ever take this castle was beyond him. All his life, he had thought that The Twins were impressive. But here, the Inner Castle alone was larger than both towers of his ancestral home. From the walls above him and draped from several of the largest buildings were the grey and white banners of House Stark. The King in the North had returned.

As Lord Glover's party, now numbering over two hundred, had entered the courtyard, they were met by the new King in the North. Upon seeing him, all in the party dropped to one knee in recognition of their King. While he was kept separate and guarded, Lord Glover received bread and salt from King Jon and the two men swiftly made their way inside the castle. Meanwhile, he was left to stew in the yard. At least they hadn't executed him yet or thrown him straight into the dungeons.

After what seemed an interminable wait, he was marched into the Great Hall of Winterfell. Seated at the far end on the Throne of Winter was King Jon Stark. Flanking him were Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Galbart Glover and several other Lords and Ladies. None looked pleased. On the table in front of the King was the crown that he had risked his life to bring North.

As he was led up to the throne, he dropped to one knee before his King and didn't even raise his eyes until he heard the voice of the King.

"Look at me," Jon said.

Raising his eyes, he saw the cold grey eyes of Jon Stark boring into him. And perhaps shockingly, the red eyes of a huge white direwolf as well. Where in the seven hells did _that_ come from, he wondered. It wasn't there when he was led in here.

"Why?" asked the King.

"You're Grace?"

Jon replied, his voice rising with every question, "Why? Why risk your life coming all this way to bring my brother's crown to me? Why, when you and your family murdered our families in cold blood after offering them guest right? _Why?!_"

"Because I had no part in that, Your Grace. I tried to warn King Robb. But I was kept locked up and cut off from anyone who could get a message to the King. The only people I saw until after the wedding were Black Walder and Lothar. No one else was trusted to see me. I hate my bloody father for what he's done. I came because that crown is yours now, Your Grace. I came, because it was the right thing to do."

Continuing in a whisper, Olyvar said, "I came because I owed it to Robb."

Several of the people flanking the King muttered at that. He heard Smalljon say that he had shown bravery at the Whispering Wood and had fought side by side with Robb several times. Even Dacey grudgingly agreed with that. But judging by the hard looks being sent his way, all that mattered to them was that he was a Frey.

After was likely about a half hour or so of discussion, some sort of agreement was reached and he was finally asked some questions.

"What happened to my brother's bones?" asked Jon.

"He was beheaded Your Grace and his head was sent to King's Landing. His body was mutilated by Black Walder and then hung in a cage from the northern battlements."

"Grey Wind?"

"Killed, Your Grace."

"Lord Umber?"

"He was killed while defending the King, Your Grace. I heard the servants talking about how he killed a dozen men before finally falling."

There was a grunt at that from Smalljon. "Be like him to go like that. You know, he always knew he would fall in battle one day. Gods rest him."

"Aye," Jon replied. "Father often talked about him, how he'd never seen a man drink so much ale and still be alert. My condolences, Lord Umber."

After the Smalljon nodded his thanks, King Jon continued, "Who else fell?"

"Wendel Manderly, Your Grace. He fell fighting. Lady Stark. Lothar slit her throat."

"What happened to Lady Stark's body?"

"At first, nothing. They were too busy celebrating. Then search parties were sent out looking for Lord Umber and Lady Dacey. After that, most of the bodies were gathered up and thrown in a mass grave. I heard that they kept the bodies of Lord Umber, Lord Wendel and the other highborn separate to return their bones to their respective Houses in an attempt to keep them from rebelling."

That drew a snort from both Dacey and Smalljon. Dacey said, "Not fucking likely. The Boltons and Freys are traitorous scum. We'll never submit as long as they're still alive."

"Continue Olyvar," the King said.

"I heard my brothers laughing at what they had done to Lady Stark's body. They said they stripped her naked and threw her into the Trident."

At that, a wave of anger rippled through the Great Hall. Lady Stark may not have been born in the North, but she was much loved by these Northmen. And the way her bones had been treated only served to add to their anger.

Holding a hand up for silence, the King asked, "Anyone else? Anyone captured?"

"Lord Tully was captured. Along with Patrek Mallister and Donnel Locke. Lord Tully is being held at The Twins. Patrek Mallister is being held at Seagard. I don't where Donnel Locke is. Owen Norrey, Robin Flint, Lucas Blackwood, Ser Marc Piper and so many more were killed, Your Grace."

"Thank you Olyvar," the King said. Reaching down, he picked up the crown off the table, looked at it for a long moment, then slowly raised it and placed it on his head.

"As King in the North, I find no reason to believe your words. Your House has proven through their actions time and time again that it cannot be trusted. However, Lord Umber spoke of your bravery in fighting by my brother's side. That fact alone warrants some small consideration for you.

"Olyvar Frey, I Jon, of the House Stark, Third of my Name, King in the the North and of the Trident, sentence you to die. However, in recognition of your prior service to my House, I will grant you to chance to redeem your name. Should you wish, I will allow to join the Night's Watch, where you will spend the rest of your days on The Wall, guarding the realms of men from the threat that lies beyond. Your decision?"

Olyvar blanched. The blood drained from his face. This was so unfair! He had risked _everything_ to travel to the North and pledge his fealty to the King. And this was how he was being thanked? By being given the choice of losing his head or his freedom? What had he done to so anger the Gods this way? Even as he asked himself that, a small voice in his head whispered the answer to him: he had betrayed his family. Even considering that his family was cursed in all the Seven Kingdoms, he had still betrayed them. He was a fool. He had abandoned his family and the only thing he had to offer the King in the North was a circle of hammered bronze and iron. His father was right about him. He was a worthless idiot.

It was only when the King spoke again that Olyvar realized that he had been silent for quite some time. Jon said, "Olyvar Frey, I will take your silence as your decision." Turning to the guardsmen that were in the Great Hall Jon said, "Take him out to the yard."

"Your Grace, wait," Olyvar practically shouted! "I'll join the Watch, Your Grace. I'll join."

Nodding sharply, King Jon Stark turned to one of the men by his side and said, "Ser Marlon?"

"Your Grace?"

"Olyvar Frey once provided honorable service to the North. But, as no one can speak to his actions since then, I am left with no option but to sentence him to death. However, he has asked for the honor of joining the Night's Watch instead of death. Therefore, you will anoint Olyvar as a Knight, then see that he is escorted to Castle Black, where he will live out his days serving the realm with the Night's Watch."


	8. Wolves of the North-8

**TRIGGER WARNING: **near the end of the chapter is a brief rape scene. If that is an issue for anyone reading, I apologize and suggest you not read this chapter. I will be happy to provide a summary of the chapter to anyone who does not wish to read this chapter due to the scene mentioned above.

**Theon**

He was cowering in the corner of Lord Bolton's solar in the Dreadfort. Lord Bolton and his Master were standing and discussing the capture of Moat Cailin. Reek had been quaking in fear ever since Theon had made an appearance at Moat Cailin. Fear that his Master would know he was still Theon. Worse still, his Master was in a good mood. Whenever his Master was in a good mood, he liked to "celebrate" by taking pieces of him.

"You did well to take Moat Cailin," Roose told his son. "What happened to the Ironborn that were there?"

"They were enemies of the North. I treated them as such," Ramsay replied.

"You flayed them?"

"That is our banner for a reason, Father."

"_My_ banner. You're a Snow. Or have you forgotten?"

"No, Lord Bolton. I would never forget that."

"Good. But you need not remember it any longer." Taking a scroll from his desk, Roose held it out to Ramsay. "This is an edict from the King. You are a Snow no longer. By order of King Joffery Baratheon, from this day until your last day, you are Ramsay Bolton, my trueborn son and heir."

Ramsay seemed to almost swell with pride before replying, "Thank you, Father. This means a great deal to me."

"There's more as well. If we are to secure our claim to the North, we need to solidify our claim to Winterfell over Ned Stark's bastard. So, I have something else for you as well."

Saying that, Roose gestured to the guard inside the door with his chin who nodded and stepped out of the solar before returning a moment later. With him was a girl with brown eyes and dark hair. Reek felt his eyes widen in recognition. He knew her. Well, Theon had.

"Ramsay Bolton," Roose continued, "I give you Arya Stark, your bride."

Wait. Arya? That wasn't Arya. That was Jeyne Poole, Sansa's friend and the daughter of Lord Stark's steward.

Ramsay gave "Arya" a smile. Reek knew that smile. It was predatory and anticipatory. His stomach churned. He knew what his Master would do to Jeyne. Gods, what would he do to her if he knew she wasn't really Arya? Reek kept his head bowed and his eyes fixed solidly on the floor at his feet. He couldn't let his Master know the truth about Jeyne. Not until Ramsay ordered him to tell.

"Lady Stark. Welcome. I look forward to getting to know you better. I know this is likely as much a shock to you as it is to me. But I promise, I will make you happy."

"Th-Thank you, My Lord. I-I will do my best to make you happy," "Arya" told Ramsay.

"You'll wed tonight in the Godswood," Lord Bolton said. "Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell will be here later today to witness your wedding."

"Thank you, Father. I look forward to it."

"Go prepare for your wedding. I'm sure Lady Stark has much to do before being wed tonight."

Nodding to his father, Ramsay turned to Reek and said, "Come along Reek. You must prepare me for tonight."

In a broken voice, full of terror and subservience, he replied, "Yes, Master."

As his Master strutted down the corridor with his chest puffed out, his new station making him even more arrogant and self-assured, Reek meekly followed behind him with his eyes cast down on the floor. Did the Bolton's really think that Jeyne Poole could pass for Arya? Especially with Jon alive and laying claim to Robb's crown? Did Lord Bolton know that the girl wasn't Arya?

Ramsay suddenly stopped and turned to face him and said, "Reek. I've just had a wonderful idea. Why don't you help Lady Arya prepare for tonight? I can manage without you, but this is a strange place for my bride and she would take comfort in having a familiar face to assist her in her preparations for tonight."

"Yes, Master," Reek replied while bobbing his head. As Reek hobbled off towards Jeyne's, he meant Arya's, chamber, he could feel his Master watching him. Reek started to tremble in fear. His Master must sense Theon inside him. Finally his Master turned and walked off towards his own chambers.

Hobbling along until he reached Jeyne's, no, that's wrong. He must always think of it as Lady Arya's chamber/cell, he knocked on the door before opening it and limping his way inside. Jeyne was sitting on the edge of the bed and sobbing quietly. Reek felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: anger. What did she have to cry about? What could she possibly have suffered through compared to him? She had no idea what true torture was.

"My Lady," Reek said in his broken voice with his face turned towards the floor.

Jeyne looked up quickly, startled at the interruption. The distraught girl had been so absorbed in her own misery that she hadn't even noticed when Reek had entered the room.

"My Lady, my Master has commanded me to help you prepare for your wedding this evening. He...he felt that a familiar face might make things easier on you."

A familiar face? Hah! He looked to have aged forty years since Jeyne had last seen him. His own flesh and blood wouldn't recognize him now. How in the seven hells would Jeyne, someone he barely knew, recognize him? And even if she did, why would she want anything to do with _him_? It was then that realization dawned on Reek. This was meant to be the start of his Master's torture of the girl. Even his own wife would not be spared his sick and twisted attentions. Idly, Reek wondered what bits and pieces he intended to remove from Jeyne.

He could see the confusion on Jeyne's face. She clearly had no idea who he was. He would have to tell her. But how? He wasn't Theon. He was Reek. And she didn't know Reek, only Theon. He began to quiver in fear of what his Master would do to him when he discovered that he had failed. And his Master would find out. He always found out.

From deep within him, Theon awoke and shoved Reek aside. Theon was disgusted with Reek. Ramsay had broken him so thoroughly that he was completely incapable of doing anything beyond what Ramsay ordered him to. Now that he was in control again, he would have to see the mewling wretch of a creature that Reek was through yet another crises.

Looking up at Jeyne, Theon said in a soft voice lest others hear, "My name is Theon Greyjoy, Lady Poole. I was the Ward of Lord Stark. Now I'm the prisoner and servant of Lord Ramsay. He intends to torture you much as he did me. He believes you to be Arya Stark. What better way to torture you than forcing you to accept help from someone you have every reason to want dead? And it won't stop here. Ramsay is a monster and he will make you wish for death every day that you remain alive."

For a brief instant, Theon saw a fire burn in Jeyne's eyes as she remembered who he was and what he had done to her childhood home. But it was quickly extinguished and she hung her head. In a whisper so soft Theon had to strain to hear her, she said, "Then he can do nothing that hasn't already been done to me in Littlefinger's whorehouse. I already wish for death every day and I've already been subjected to more torture than you will know. I've been raped, with my mouth and my ass used to provide pleasure for anyone that Littlefinger forced on me. And if I refused, I was whipped until I was bloody and passed out. And then I would be used anyway. I know what monsters are. Ramsey can do no worse to me than has already been done."

Theon slowly shook his head. Jeyne truly had no idea what was coming for her. For as awful as her life had been up till now, it was about to get far, far worse. Ramsay was a horrible monster far beyond anything Jeyne could ever imagine even in her worst nightmares. Ramsay would likely spare her face, he would need that intact, it was the supposed face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the rest of her would be endlessly and mercilessly tortured.

"Lady Poole, I know this will not be comfortable for you, but Ramsay has ordered that I prepare you for your wedding tonight. I'll draw a bath for you. You can wash while I prepare your clothes and help you dress."

Jeyne just meekly nodded her acquiescence. Gods, Theon thought. She really had been broken by Littlefinger, hadn't she? What would Ramsay do to her now? He couldn't kill her. At least not until she gave him an heir. But gods, her life would be hell until then. Theon really didn't know what he could do to help her. He tried to think of ways he could help as he prepared her bath, but everything he thought up only got them killed or required him to do things that he was no longer physically capable of. Like swing a sword or draw a bow.

As he hobbled his way back into Lady Poole's bedchamber, Theon felt his breath catch in his throat. Jeyne had partially disrobed and had her back turned toward him. Her back was nothing but a mass of scars. She truly had been whipped mercilessly. There was not a single piece of unbroken skin on her back.

"My Lady," Theon said. "Your bath is ready."

"Thank you," Jeyne said softly.

The rest of the preparations for the wedding tonight went by in a blur. Mostly because Theon was waging a war within his own head to keep that disgusting creature Reek out. While still having to act like Reek. It was tearing him apart inside. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to remain as Theon before Ramsay finally completely broke him and turned him into Reek permanently.

And Ramsay's torture of Jeyne only got worse as the night progressed. At her wedding, Ramsay had forced him to give Jeyne away. The Northmen present, well, they all agreed that Ramsay had given him exactly what he deserved. If only they knew. Even these hard bastards would be revolted by what Ramsay had done.

It wasn't until the dinner feast that Theon began to feel a glimmer of hope. While serving Ramsay and "Arya" at the head table, he overheard Lord Ryswell tell Lord Bolton that Jon had retaken Winterfell. Apparently, the castle had been left abandoned after Ramsay burned it. If he could get Jeyne away from Ramsay, they could run for Winterfell. But he would need to do it quickly, before Reek could take him over again.

Shortly afterwards, Ramsay had him escort his bride to his bed chamber. As Theon brought "Arya" to Ramsay's chamber, he could hear the girl sobbing softly. She knew that she was about to be raped again. This time, he felt compassion for her. He couldn't imagine what she was feeling now.

As Theon brought Jeyne into Ramsay's chamber, he heard his "Master" enter right behind them. No bedding ceremony for Ramsay then.

"Ah, My Lady," Ramsay said. "It pleases me to see you here. Do you know what is expected of you tonight?"

"I...I've had training, My Lord," "Arya" replied.

Theon could guess exactly what kind of training she'd had, being forced into one of Littlefinger's whorehouses. Hells, the poor girl had already told him that she'd been forced to give her mouth and her ass to anyone Littlefinger told her to.

"Good," Ramsay told her. "Take off your clothes."

Jeyne darted a worried glance at Theon and then slowly, with trembling fingers, began to disrobe. Theon took the hint and slowly turned and took a step towards the door.

"No, Reek," Ramsay said. "You stay. I need a witness to me taking Lady Arya's maidenhead and putting an heir in her belly."

"Arya" froze at hearing that. Theon had warned her that she didn't know what Ramsay was capable of. Now she was learning first hand. Theon too froze. This was a new low, even for Ramsay.

"Yes, Master," Theon told him, using Reek's broken and miserable voice.

Turning back towards "Arya" Ramsay said, "Well, girl? I told you to remove your clothes. I'm not in the habit of repeating myself."

"S...S...Sorry, My Lord," Jeyne told him.

As she started to remove her garments again, Ramsay gave a frustrated huff, stood up from the chair he had sat down in, walked over to the terrified girl and sliced her clothes away from her with his knife, leaving her naked and trembling in the light from the fire. Roughly forcing his hand between the girl's thighs her groped her most intimate parts before pushing her away from him to land on the bed behind her.

"Gods girl," Ramsay exclaimed. "You're dry as a bone. Reek. Get over here 'Prince of Winterfell.' Why don't you use your right of first night with the bride?"

"M...Master? I...I...I have no...no..."

Slapping Theon across the face, Ramsay said, "Idiot. Prepare her for me. She's drier than the Dornish desert. Put that mouth of yours to work, Reek."

Giving Jeyne an apologetic look, Theon lowered his mouth to her sex and began to pleasure her. Despite Jeyne's obvious horror and fear, she began to get wet and an occasional moan even escaped her lips. Theon always had been good at this. Just as he was about to make Jeyne climax, Ramsay ripped him away from his bride, grabbed her hips and thrust himself inside her with one cruel, savage stroke, tearing her maidenhead and fully impaling her on his manhood.

Turning his head away, Theon saw that he had landed next to the pile of clothes that Ramsay had discarded. And among the clothes, was Ramsay's belt with his knife in it's sheath. Jeyne's screams as she was savagely and brutally raped seemed to stir something within him. Looking quickly at Ramsay, he saw that the sadistic bastard was fully engrossed in the rape of his bride.

Easing the dagger from its scabbard and slipping it into his rags, he stood slowly. As he stood, the tip of the blade pierced his flesh and the brief flash of pain seemed to galvanize him and let him keep Reek away, despite the wretch's mewling and begging him not to do this, to let him take over again. Instead Theon got shakily to his feet. He was only a foot or two away from where Ramsay was furiously rutting in Jeyne's cunt.

Slipping the knife from what passed for his pants, Theon lunged at Ramsay and slammed the dagger into the side of Ramsay's neck. Ripping the blade forward with every ounce of strength he had left in his ruined body, Theon felt his tormentor's throat split open and his hot blood gush out over his hand. On the bed, Jeyne had a horrified look on her face as Ramsay's blood sprayed over her naked body, staining her skin red.

Ramsay, clutching at his ruined throat fell to his knees, his rapidly deflating cock falling from Jeyne's abused sex. With a shocked look on his face, the evil bastard tried to grasp at Theon. Instead, Theon spat in his face before burying the dagger up to its hilt in Ramsay's eye. His "Master" fell to the floor, dead before his head hit it.

Ripping the dagger free of Ramsay's eye, Theon threw clothes at Jeyne and grabbed Ramsay's belt. Wrapping it around himself, he slid the knife back into the scabbard. Looking back at the shocked girl, Theon told her, "Get dressed. Hurry. We have to run. They'll kill us both if we stay."

Finally coming out of her stupor, Jeyne began to dress while Theon tied the bedding into a rope. Fortunately for him, Ramsay's chamber was on the wall of the Dreadfort. His father had not yet moved him into the inner keep as would befit his new station as the heir of the Dreadfort. Throwing the improvised rope out the window, Theon urged Jeyne to hurry, that they didn't have much time.

As the two struggled out the window and down the rope, Theon was in agony. His broken body lacked the strength for this. What strength he did have had largely been expended in killing Ramsay. That thought at least brought a smile to his face. The look of shock and betrayal on Ramsay's face as he died would be a cherished memory for the rest of his days.

Halfway down the rope, Theon's strength gave out. He fell the remaining distance to the ground. Hitting the ground, he felt the air rush out of his lungs. While he was struggling to suck in a breath, Jeyne reached the ground beside him. Fighting his way to his feet, Theon pointed to the woods in the direction of Winterfell. Wheezing, Theon said, "That way. We have to run. They'll turn the hounds out soon."

Hobbling as fast as he could, Theon and Jeyne fled into the woods, leaving the Dreadfort, and Ramsay's rapidly cooling corpse, behind them.


	9. Wolves of the North-9

**Mance**

He never thought he'd be on this side of the Wall again. Yet, here he was. He was standing in the place that had been his home for many years. Not much had changed at Castle Black since his departure. Well, maybe it was a bit more run down than the last time he'd seen it. But it still looked like home.

He was standing by the tunnel going through the Wall and watching his people stream through the tunnel and into safety. He was struggling to contain his emotions watching history unfold before his very eyes. The black brothers were watching too. Though their emotions were very different from his. Most wore scowls as the Free Folk moved through the castle. Not that Mance blamed them. The Free Folk and the Watch had fought each other for centuries. And if he was being honest, the Free Folk were scowling at the Watch just as heavily.

Outside the castle, men from the North were directing the Free Folk where to go. One great old cunt of a man in particular stood outside the gate with his hands on his hips glowering at the people passing through. He was giving them curt, gruff orders and directions. Hother "Whoresbane" Umber was a man that commanded respect. No man with his reputation grew old unless he was very good at killing. So the Free Folk listened to him. They hated him, but they listened. Some people were heading east, some were heading west. But all were heading to safety. The land they were being allowed to settle on was largely overgrown, but at one one time it had been some of the most fertile land in the North. There would be mountains of work ahead of them to prepare to survive the winter. But everyone was in agreement, the work was far preferable than being turned into slaves of the Others.

One part of him was still rankled about the conditions he'd had to agree to to get that land. A full ten percent of their harvest had to be surrendered as a tax on the land. All ten percent of it was to be sent to Castle Black or to the other castles of the Night's Watch as they were rebuilt to fill their larders and provide wood and stone to repair the ruined castles. And he'd had to fight hard to get it that low. Jon Stark had originally demanded twenty percent of their harvest. In the end, it had been agreed to settle on the lower number. Jon had made the not unreasonable argument that, since his own people would be fighting from the castles along the Wall, they really weren't losing much, if anything. It still rankled though.

As each clan passed through the tunnel under the wall, they were met by a different Umber. Mors Umber, the man called Crowfood. He was a man that the Free Folk knew well. Mors was a bitter old man with an undying hatred for Wildlings. Jon placing him where he had was no mistake. Thirty years ago, his daughter had been taken in a raid. The man wanted her back if she was still alive. Or the head of the man who took her if she wasn't. That condition had been non negotiable. Mance had reluctantly agreed. Mors was in for a shock when he found out the truth about his daughter. He wasn't sure how the man would take it when he found out that they were kin by marriage now.

While Mors was waiting to learn the truth about his daughter, he had another job. As each clan came through the tunnel, he took a hostage from each chieftain to ensure that clan's good conduct. Normally he chose one of the sons of the chieftain, but occasionally he would take a daughter if the chief had no sons or if their only son was still a babe nursing from his mother's teat. For a man who hated Wildlings, he was surprisingly gentle and kind to the children. To their parents however, he was the same gruff old bastard that the Free Folk had heard tales of.

He was also ensuring that the clans turned over half their wealth to the Night's Watch. Well, half of what they had brought with them. The Free Folk weren't fools. About a third of their gold, silver and gems had been buried and hidden north of the Wall. It was a risk, but it was a small risk. How much gold would the kneelers south of the Wall really think the Free Folk would have, anyway?

Other men from the North and the Watch were at Queensgate, Deep Lake, Oakenshield and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool to open the gates there and speed the passage of the Free Folk through the Wall. Everyone knew time was of the essence. The Others would not want to lose their future army. Mance just prayed that everyone would be through the Wall before they came. Not least because his family had yet to come through the tunnel. He wouldn't be able to relax until they did.

Finally, they came through the tunnel. Dalla was on his horse to ease her journey as she was heavy with his child. Val stood protectively in front of her, daring anyone to so much as think of touching her sister. Behind them, came their mother, Rowan. Mance smiled warmly at his family. Thank the Gods that they had made it safely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mors Umber stiffen. Crowfood was staring at his family. Fuck. He should have known that the old bastard would recognize his kin.

Striding over to Mors, Mance told him, "You demanded the return of your daughter. Well, your daughter is my mother-by-law. Those two young women there, those are your granddaughters, Crowfood. The one walking is Val. The one on the horse, is Dalla. Dalla is my wife. And she is soon to give birth. We've lived up to our agreement. Your daughter is home."

In truth, Mors hadn't recognized his daughter. She had lived a hard life in the lands of always winter, and it had worn her features away. He had recognized Dalla. Dalla, to hear Rowan tell it, looked just like her when she was younger, other than her hair that is. Mors was almost overcome with emotion. His daughter, after thirty years, was home.

Mance was starting to get slightly worried. Mors hadn't said a word yet. He just kept staring at his daughter. Just as Mance started to say, "Lord Umber," Mors' fist connected with Mance's jaw in a vicious uppercut. Instead of staying to fight him though, Mors took off running towards his daughter. Skidding to a stop, Mors reached out with a trembling hand and brushed his daughter's cheek gently.

"Rowan," he croaked in a voice choked with emotion. "Is that really you, daughter?"

With her eyes full of tears and her lips trembling, she said, "Yes, Father. It's me. I'm home."

Mors then broke into tears and pulled his daughter to him and wrapped her up in an embrace. The two of them were openly sobbing at being reunited. This was a first for Mance. He'd never seen Rowan cry before, not even when her husband was killed by that snow bear. The woman was as tough as they come. But now, in the arms of her father, she could finally let go of everything she had been feeling since the day she was taken from her family home. Mance had a decent idea of what she might be feeling.

Striding up to his family, Mance reached up and helped Dalla down off her the horse. He smiled lovingly at his bride. She was safe now. They'd both live to see the birth of their child. They were safe from the threat of the Others. For as long as the Wall stood, the Others could not pass.

"You, Rayder," he heard Mors practically shout at him.

Taking a deep breath, Mance turned to face the weathered face of the man called Crowfood.

"Half of me wants to beat you half to death for not returning my daughter to me sooner. The other half of me wants to embrace you and tell you that I owe you a debt I can never repay for keeping my family safe. I don't know which part should win out. So for now, you'll all come with me to the Last Hearth. We'll feast your arrival and then discuss whats to be done with our family."


	10. Wolves of the North-10

**Tyrion**

"You know," Tyrion thought to himself, "the Black Cells really aren't that bad. Well, once you get over the existential terror of being locked in a room that even he couldn't stand up in and being enveloped in complete and total darkness anyway." At least he still had a pot to piss in, some straw on the damp stone floor for a mattress and every so often one of the guards would throw in a crust of bread or pan of stagnant water. He could still be locked in one of the sky cells at the Eryie. Given the choice, he would much rather be confined here. Now if only he had a candle and a book, he would be quite content. At least his bitch of a sister would hopefully forget about him down here and he was finally free of Joffery's various cruelties. He was still curious how the boy had been poisoned so easily, though in truth the world was better off without the brat.

While Tyrion sat with his back against the rough stone wall, he wondered if this was how Ned Stark felt when he was locked away down here awaiting his fate. Did he fear for his life and the lives of his family? Now that was a stupid question. Ned Stark had been a warrior all his life. He knew he was a dead man the moment he was locked away down here. He would never fear for his life. The lives of his daughters, however? Oh Tyrion would wager quite a bit that Ned Stark feared for his children.

Tyrion's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the door. The lock was quite old and very stiff, it squealed as the key was turned in it. It sounded frighteningly similar to the noises a man made while he was being disemboweled. Probably left that way intentionally. Unlike most who would turn toward a door being opened, Tyrion had been down here long enough to know to look away or he would be blinded by the torch of the guard.

As the door swung inward, Tyrion heard his father voice saying, "Tyrion."

The fact that his father had come down to talk to him honestly shocked the hell out of him. Jamie had visited him a time or two, but he never expected to see his father again except at his joke of a trial. But now he was here.

Turning towards the door, Tyrion looked through squinted eyes, and with his hand held over his face to further shade his eyes, toward where his father's voice was coming from. He could just make out the outline of Tywin Lannister through the door.

Responding to his father, Tyrion said, "Ah, Father. How good of you to come see me. I would stand and greet you properly, but well, my present accommodations do not allow even one such as I that luxury."

"Save it," Tywin replied. "Get out here. We must have words."

Well now, this was interesting. Not only did his father wish to speak with him, he apparently didn't want others, or rather, he didn't want Cersei, to know about it. Why else would the great Tywin Lannister deign to come down to the Black Cells? He was the Hand of the King. Anyone he wanted to speak to, he could have brought to his chamber in the Red Keep. He was half tempted to tell his father to go to hell and stay right where he was out of spite. But Tyrion did still love his family and despite what his father often thought, he never wanted anything but the best for it. So he moved towards the door in a crouch until he reached it and, for the first time in days, stood erect. Despite himself, Tyrion couldn't resist the urge to stretch. Every bone, muscle, joint and sinew in his body popped, crackled and stretched at once. It hurt but it felt so good at the same time.

"If you're quite done?" Tyrion heard his father say.

"Almost. Until you've been locked in one of these, you don't really appreciate the simple joy of being able to stretch."

"Even now, you're an insolent wretch."

"Yes, as you never cease to remind me."

Tyrion could see the ire rising in his father's eyes. Normally, he wouldn't care. But given his present circumstances, he really should. Just a bit.

"My apologies, Father. This is the first conversation I've had in, well, I'm not actually sure how long it's been. I seem to have forgotten my manners."

"You never had them to begin with."

Gesturing towards the stairs, Tywin ordered Tyrion to start climbing.

It wasn't long before Tyrion was out of breath and his legs were burning from the exertion. How much more did they have to go before they could stop? Finally, they came to a guard room with a table and two chairs in it and his father told him to sit. Thank the Gods, he thought. He was seriously winded.

"Did you kill Joffery?" his father asked.

Ah. So _that_ was the conversation his father wanted to have. It helped that Tyrion actually had the truth on his side in this particular matter, but given his father's distaste for him, he wasn't sure that it would help much. Nevertheless, he would do his best to convince his father of his innocence.

"No. He was an obnoxious, sadistic, malignant terror and he was an awful King. But I didn't kill him. He was still my family, no matter how much he hated me. I may not be your ideal son, and as you've pointed out to me numerous times in the past, I tend to embarrass the family with my whoring and overall boorish behavior. But I would _never_ betray our family like that."

For long minutes after Tyrion stopped talking, Tywin sat in his chair, as silent as a tomb, staring at him. Finally, and without so much as acknowledging what Tyrion had just said, Tywin asked:

"And Sansa?"

Here, Tyrion actually paused. His wife was innocent and naive. Well, at least as far as anyone that had been engaged to Joffery could be. But she also desperately wanted Joffery dead.

"Possibly, though I doubt it. Her absence does seem to cast suspicion on her, and by extension onto me as her husband. And it was no secret that Joffery had humiliated her and that she wanted him dead. But I don't believe that she actually had it in her to kill him. Not yet, anyway. Another few years and she would have done it without hesitation had the opportunity arrived. But she isn't there yet. So no, I don't believe she had any part in Joffery's murder, but as she is not here, I cannot completely rule it out."

Tywin sat in silence for what felt like ages. Eventually he said, "You've been a disease and a blight on my House since the day you were born. By rights I should be overjoyed at the prospect of you loosing your head and finally putting you out of my misery. But you're still my son. Killing you does nothing to advance my House. And unfortunately, out of all my children, you're the only one that seems to have inherited even half of a brain. So your death would leave House Lannister weaker.

"At any rate, Joffery's fool was found floating face down in Blackwater Bay, filled with arrows. He likely played some part in Joffery's murder. Several servants reported that he and Sansa met in secret in the Godswood several times. It's convenient enough to lay the blame on him and Sansa for now. After all, Joffery humiliated the both of them often enough and he nearly drowned his fool on his name day with wine. Out of everyone in King's Landing those two probably wanted him dead more than anyone.

"With that in mind, I have a task for you. It will get you out of the City and far away from Cersei who is so blinded by rage and grief, she doesn't care who burns for Joffery's murder as long as someone does.

"Eddard Stark's bastard has been named King in the North. His brother apparently legitimized him and named him his heir in his will. The Freys and Boltons failed to intercept that will before it reached Castle Black. Therefore, I am sending Jamie to the North with a relatively small force to reinforce Roose Bolton. You will go with him and serve as my representative. Once you arrive in the North, you will meet secretly with Stark's bastard and offer him a deal. If he submits to the Iron Throne and swears fealty to Tommen, we will confirm his legitimization, name him Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Then Jamie and his men will join with him and help him to dispose of the Boltons."

"Betraying our gallant friends and allies so soon, Father? Not that I blame you. The Bolton's are not exactly what I would call trustworthy. Not after that nasty business in the Riverlands."

"Save your japes or I'll throw you back in your cell myself. In addition to offering him the Lordship of Winterfell, you may also offer him your cousin Joy as a wife. I'll ensure she is legitimized prior to the wedding and her hand in marriage to him will cement our alliance."

"Didn't you already promise Joy to one of Walder Frey's sons?"

"Yes, and I can unpromise her just as easily."

Tutting to himself, Tyrion said, "I wouldn't be so sure of that. Look what happened to the last man to break an engagement with House Frey."

"Shut your insolent mouth. So are you going to do as I tell you or do I have you thrown back in your cell?"

Rubbing the back of his neck as he thought everything over, Tyrion eventually said, "You realize of course that making that offer to Jon Snow is more likely to get me killed than it is that he'll accept the offer? What am I saying? Of course you realize it. That's why you want me to make the offer instead of Jamie. On the off chance that he refuses, but lets me keep my head attached to my body, what then?"

"Then Jamie will lead his men against Winterfell and forcibly remove the boy from the castle. He will then install Roose Bolton as Warden of the North as previously promised. And you happen to be overlooking one key factor. Your wife is his sister. By law and tradition, you are now his kin. Killing you would be kinslaying. And of all the Kingdoms, the North is least likely to engage in that."

"And what of Sansa? What if Jon demands the girl be returned to Winterfell? If the so-called King in the North is unwilling to acknowledge our wedding, what then?"

"Then your failure to get the girl with child will come back to haunt you even more than it already has. Did you think I was so insistent on you taking the girl's maidenhead because I was concerned about the legality of your marriage if it remained unconsummated? No, you needed to get her with child so that she would be forever tied to us and so that she would never wish to leave, even if for no other reason than to remain with her child. But you weren't even man enough to do that."

"And on the very small chance that Jon is foolish enough to accept your offer, what then? Snow will be dead within a fortnight. His own bannermen would murder him. And what happens to me after all this?"

"Then we name Jamie Warden of the North until a suitable family is found to take the Stark's place. You will return to the Westerlands and will be given a suitable keep. Where you will remain for the rest of your days, far removed from my sight. Should Sansa ever be found, she will be given the choice to either be executed or to join the Silent Sisters for the rest of her days. If she joins the Sisters, your marriage will be annulled and I will find a suitable bride for you from the Westerlands. And you will live out your days in that keep, far away from me."

So, in a way, he was still going to be executed, only the method had changed. From a simple blow by Ser Illyn Payne, it would be a long drawn out execution without even a crowd to witness his passing as he wasted away, for all intents and purposes a prisoner within his own walls. On the other hand, he supposed that with enough books and whores he could at least make it more enjoyable than the Black Cells. And the food and wine would be immeasurably better.

"When do I leave?"


End file.
